


Merlin, Give Me Strength

by Aelys_Althea



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Animagus, Animals, Aurors, Birds, Dark Magic, Draco Malfoy-centric, Fanart, HP: EWE, Investigations, M/M, Obliviousness, POV Draco Malfoy, Pining, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-05-24 19:10:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 86,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6163584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aelys_Althea/pseuds/Aelys_Althea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco retreated after the war. Despite the Wizarding world turning a smiling, forgiving face to any and all with a black name and stained reputation, he wanted none of it. All Draco wanted was to be left alone.<br/>Unfortunately for him, Harry Potter doesn’t want to leave him alone. And more than that, he finds himself with the most unlikely of house guests that he just can’t seem to rid himself of.<br/>Why is life never simple?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Call Him Jack

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All characters and situations belong, fundamentally, to J.K. Rowling. I've simply extrapolated. Thank you, you wonder woman. I make no profit from this work besides my own personal satisfaction.
> 
> Written for Dracotops_Harry Fest 2016, Prompt #18. Thanks to lomonaaeren for your wonderful prompt! I couldn't get the story out of my head until I put it to paper.
> 
> Also, a special thanks to the wonderful @hatsonhamburgers for your absolutely beautiful fanart! I can't even tell you how utterly ecstatic I was to see your wonderful work!!
> 
> If you'd like to leave a comment on LiveJournal, please do so **here**. I'd really appreciate it if you did, to let me know what you think. Thanks!

                                             

_Tap-tap_.

The sound prodded Draco from the depths of his sleep. A persistent niggling sound that echoed distantly. Distant, yet drawing closer.

_Tap-tap…tap-tap-tap…tap-tap._

Blinking his eyes into the darkness of night, he lifted his head dazedly from the pillow. Still night? Yes, it was definitely still night. He could hardly make out the lines of his double bed, of the bookshelf wedged in one corner or the desk buried beneath a thin scattering of pale papers. It was far too early to be waking up, so why –

TAP-TAP…tap-tap-TAP…TAP-TAP.

Oh. That.

With a groan, Draco pushed himself to sitting. The sharp raps came from his window, from behind the heavy, dark curtains hanging still in the closed stagnation of his bedroom. The _closed_ window. Which was likely the reason for the arising problem in the first place.

_What am I, at his bloody beck and call?_

Their relationship had always on Jack’s terms. Always when _he_ wanted it. Draco could go for weeks without hearing a peep from him and yet suddenly when he wanted _Draco’s_ attention, it had to be Right Now. Where did he get such a sense of entitlement?

Draco really should not stand for it.

And yet even as the thought occurred to him, Draco was rubbing his eyes, swinging his legs over the side of his bed and sliding to standing. The floorboards were icily cold beneath his toes; for whatever reason, his Warming Charms never endured when he fell to sleep. Picking up his wand from his bedside table, he padded in awkward steps towards the window and flicked back the curtains.

It _was_ Jack. Of course it was. He was back, and, as always, demanding of Draco’s attention. His dark figure was only a faintly darker splodge on the backdrop of the sleepy, snow-covered town of Smittson’s View. Even without being able to make out his face, Draco could tell that those dark, piercing eyes were locked upon his own from the instant he stepped up to the window. They always were.

Jack never had any consideration for Draco’s sleeping habits. He didn’t offer even the remotest apology each time he tumbled through Draco’s window and into his bedroom. There was just the assumption – the _presumption_ – that every time he needed him, Draco would always offer assistance.

The bloody bird.

The little merlin perched on the narrow windowsill cocked his head under Draco’s regard, finally stopping his demanding tapping. Staring back at him, eyes narrowing, Draco pursed his lips. He could let the bird in. He should, though for no kindly reasoning, no sympathy for the feathery bastard who had interrupted his sleep from the chilly outdoors of early winter’s night. His primary reasoning lay in that, should Draco continue to ignore him, Jack would undoubtedly begin his tapping once more.

“What do you want?"

Draco’s breath fogged the window, nearly obscuring the bird. Not enough that he missed the further tilting of his head back the other way, however, nor the very deliberate shift of his feet that seemed to offer a reply as surely as any spoken words. Draco didn’t need to be a bird interpreter to know what was said: _you may as well open up, because I’m not leaving._

Sighing, Draco scratched at the back of his head before sweeping his wand in a wordless _Lumos_. He folded his arms across his chest and glared at the merlin now illuminated by yellow light. The orange-white plumage of his breast was dyed a pale grey in the night. “I have absolutely no obligation to let you in. So I’m not going to. Not tonight.”

Silence.

“You’re late, for one. And it’s far too cold for me to open the window for even a second. Go and find somewhere else to sleep.”

More silence.

Draco sighed. “You can sit there all night, it’s not going to make an ounce of difference. This is _my_ house. I have no reason to allow your accommodation.”

And more silence. Until the bird shifted slightly once more and, in a remarkably un-bird-like display, stuck his leg out sideways. Deliberately. As though showing off a –

“What have you done _now_?” Draco groaned, lifting a hand to rub at the bridge of his nose. He peered through his fingers a moment later. The merlin still held his leg aloft at an odd angle, showing off the ruddy red-black stain and torn feathers of what was very obviously an injury. Jack’s piercing black eyes regarded Draco pointedly. “Why do you always come to _me_?” Though even as he asked Draco knew _exactly_ why.

There was something to be said for a bird’s memory.

With another deliberate motion, the merlin leant forwards and tapped once more on the glass. Tap…tap-tap...tap-tap-tap-tap- _tap-tap-tap-TAP-TAP-_

“Alright, alright, shut up already.” Grumbling, Draco jiggled the latch on the window and slid it open. It caught slightly, as old windows do, juddering in a poor semblance of wood sliding on smooth wood. A gust of chilling air, even colder than the floorboards beneath Draco’s feet, rushed into the room, seeping instantly through his shirt and loose pajama bottoms and erecting a landscape of goose bumps across every surface of skin. “Hurry up, come in, then."

At least Jack had the decency to hasten into the room. In a flutter of wings and an awkward, hobbling leap, he ambled through the window. Draco slid the window shut, drawing the curtains once more and casting a Warming Charm throughout the room in sharp, cutting motions. He turned with a sigh as heat pooled quickly around him.

“There, that’s better – what are you doing?! Not on the desk!” Striding across the room, Draco swept his arms in a shooing gesture at the merlin huddled comfortably in the midst of his paperwork. He’d seated himself right atop of the documents on the Lazenby incident. Papers Draco had nearly finished filling out and didn’t much fancy re-writing, thank you very much.

Jack was unimpressed by his gesticulations. He didn’t so much as flinch at Draco’s shooing motions. In quiet regard, the little bird stared him down with unblinking eyes. Though it was likely Draco’s own perception skewing the matter, he could _swear_ he looked smug.

Glaring down at the merlin venomously, Draco folded his arms across his chest once more. “You are the bane of my existence, bird,” he muttered. The smugness only intensified, underscored by the bird’s further nestling into its bed of papers.

Sighing, Draco pulled the chair out from the desk and fell heavily onto the thinly padded cushion. Propping his elbows on the desk, he dropped his chin onto one hand and stared at the merlin. Who stared right back. He’d never admit it aloud, but if they were ever to hold a staring competition, Jack would undoubtedly win.

“Alright, then. Let me take a look at you.” Dropping his hand from his chin, Draco leant forward in his seat. He rapped the tip of his wand on the desk before the bird in an echoing mimic of that Jack had rapped and he finally heaved himself to his feet once more, shuffling towards him. Draco pointed his glowing wand towards the limp leg.

The pale, downy feathers were discoloured by bloodstains, patchy where a number had obviously been ripped out. The skin beneath was crusted and blackened with its own blood, scores of deep gouges raking down into the scales of the merlin’s foot. The limb was a mess, to be frank. It was no wonder Jack was favouring it.

“You’ve certainly done a number on yourself this time,” Draco muttered, more to himself than to Jack. The bird didn’t reply anyway. “Honestly, you must injure yourself more than any other creature in existence. Do you have a death wish or something?”

Jack did reply this time. With a ruffle of feathers, he coughed a cheep followed by a series of clucks. Had Draco not known better, not known that the bird couldn’t understand him, he would assume he was being reprimanded for his assumption. “Fine, whatever. Don’t tell me. Even if I do have a right to know given that I’m your default healer. How many times has it been now? Six? Seven?”

Another series of clucks, followed by a muted “ki-ki-kee”, and the bird edged forward slightly once more. In another very deliberate gesture, he shoved his foot further towards Draco. The message could not have been clearer: _fix it_.

“Yes, your majesty,” Draco grumbled. Pausing only to offer another resentful scowl, Draco set to muttering Healing Charms under his breath. Those to mend muscle and sinew, those to knit torn skin, hastening charms to speed up recovery, blood-warmers to get the blood flow hastening more rapidly towards the rejuvenating wound. He’d practiced them all a number of times – about seven, to be more precise – and could claim to be fairly familiar with them by now. Even the charms to minimise scarring and promote feather regrowth rarely took more than two tries anymore.

Jack was immobile under Draco’s ministrations. Balancing like a flamingo on one leg, the merlin regarded him with those flat, unblinking eyes. He gave not even a faint shift of discomfort, the wary but curious peering at his own recovering injury, which had accompanied the administration on the bird’s earlier visits. Yes, seven visits to Draco’s makeshift nurse’s station had apparently swept any nervousness he may express at human company entirely under the rug.

It was a long ordeal. Wounds did not mend quickly, or cheaply. By the time he’d finished, nearly an hour had passed and Draco was leaning, one hand propped under his chin once more, and tiredly struggling to keep his eyes open. Finally, with a fluff of feathers as though ruffled by the bird himself, the final spell rippled into completion.

“There, done. All. Completely. Finished.” Sighing, Draco heaved himself to his feet. He rubbed the bridge of his nose once more, peering down with narrowed eyes at the merlin as he hobbled about the table on his newly healed limb. Very deliberately _not_ avoiding Draco’s paperwork, he noted. With a trilling cheep, the bird fluffed his feathers once more, shaking out his wings loosely and scattering down onto the desktop.

Satisfied. Fantastic. Just _fantastic_.

Turning from his seat, Draco shuffled back towards his bed. “Well then, if that’s all, I would very much like to get back to sleeping. Some of us have work tomorrow, you know.” He didn’t glance over his shoulder towards the other occupant of the room, didn’t spare him a moment more of his notice. Hell, he’d already given up more than enough of his precious sleeping hours to healing Jack from his own stupidity. He _would_ sleep, dammit, feathery intruders be damned.

Falling onto his bed, Draco folded himself into his blankets and clamped his eyes shut. Sleep. Sleep was good. Sleep was necessary, and no amount of badgering from a persistent merlin could deny him his drift into oblivion. Besides, he’d already allowed it into his house out of the cold. What more could the bird ask?

The muffled flap of wings signalled Jack’s movement about the room. Doing what, Draco knew not, and he very resolutely didn’t open his eyes to check. Not even when the flapping and scuffing approached him irritatingly closely, right to the left of his head, and abruptly ceased.

Silence. Absolute, blessed silence. It was the perfect atmosphere for sleep, what with the very distinct lateness of the night, the comfort of the pillow under Draco’s head and the pervasive warmth of the lingering Warming Charm seeping through the room. So naturally, Draco had to open his eyes to check. Just to check that the Lazenby report wasn’t even now being ripped to shreds and used as an impromptu nest.

Jack was asleep, the bloody thing. Squatting upon Draco’s left nightstand and nestled firmly atop his new copy of ‘Merlins of the Wicklow Mountains’, his eyes were already firmly shut, wings folded to give the impression of an old man dozing with shoulders hunched. If he strained his ears hard enough, Draco swore he could hear something that sounded like snoring.

Grunting, Draco closed his eyes once more. Good. The bird was asleep. So now he could sleep. And as for the next morning… well…

He sighed. Merlin be _damned_.

With a fumbling grab for his wand on the opposite nightstand, Draco threw another succession of wordless charms over his shoulder. The sound of his bedroom door opening, then that of the distant kitchen window, squeaked through the small house. Satisfied, Draco dropped his wand back onto the nightstand and burrowed himself once more into his blankets. At least now the merlin would be able to get out of his house when he awoke without waking Draco to demand an exit. Perhaps Draco could even make up the hour of sleep he’d lost.

He gave himself over to the dragging weight of blessed sleep.

~|=|~

Jack was gone the next morning. Of course he was. Without even a grateful ‘thank you’, the bird had left.

Draco didn’t care. Not really. And his sour mood was _entirely_ because, contrary to his hopes, he hadn’t been able to sleep in more. The timed alarm he’d logged onto his wand had still urged him from the depths of sleep at the crack of dawn.

All that was left of his night visitor was the odd tuft of downy feathers atop his nightstand, the desk, a couple scattered on the floor. With a sigh, Draco whisked them into an open jar that held similar feathers, wedged as a prop at one end of his bookshelf. There was quite a collection now. Such accumulated after dozens of visits.

Dozens of visits over half as many months from Draco’s little merlin.


	2. Straining for Unobtrusive

“Rough night, Malfoy?" 

Glancing up from the sheaf of parchments piled before him, Draco met Edgar Yorkley’s gaze with a flat one of his own. The fresh-faced young man, barely two years Draco’s junior yet still unable to grow more than a pathetic attempt of pale fluff on his weak chin, appeared anything but cowed by his cool regard.

But then that was simply Yorkley. Unlike many who maintained a respectfully amicable yet professionally aloof distance from Draco, the man of not quite twenty-two seemed to hold an undying desire to be friends with everyone. _Everyone_. And nothing Draco could do would dissuade him from his attempts.

Maintaining eye contact for only a moment more, Draco turned his attention back to the parchments before him. “No, Yorkley, it was not.”

“Oh. Out late then?”

Biting back a sigh, Draco flipped aside the paperclipped file atop the pile and began on the next. “No, I was not.”

“Oh.” Yorkley was silent for a moment Then, “I just thought, as you seemed to be looking a bit tired that you might have had a late night.”

Draco did sigh this time. He closed his eyes for a moment – Merlin, save him from redundant questioning – before opening them once more and shifting his gaze to regard the man slouching casual in the doorway of his modest office. Did he not have work to be doing? _Honestly_. “It was no later than usual. I left when the office closed.”

Yorkley’s eyebrows rose and he blinked incredulously. “But that’s not till nine o’clock at night.”

“And?”

“And… we finish at six.”

“You finish,” Draco murmured under his breath, dropping his eyes back to the parchment before him. He scowled at the heading. Who had managed to slip a document on the West-Indian 1878 Goblin Treaty of Cooperation into those pertaining to illusionary hexes and curses? He shook his head, despairing once more of the Law Enforcement’s filing system, and set them aside. “I’m hardly the only person to work late.”

Yorkley nodded his head vehemently at that. “Yeah, I hear you. The Elites had a late one last night too, I hear. I think we had a bunch of Sleepers, actually.”

“Really?” Draco muttered in a deliberately bored tone. Anything concerning the Elite Aurors did indeed spark his interest to a degree, but really, what did he care if some spit-and-firers spent the night at work rather than heading home to their own beds? He didn’t really care. He _didn’t_. “Fascinating.”

“I know, right? I’d love to hear what the case was about; word is that it pertained to that coupe that’s been going on down in Oxford, you know the one with the witch twins?”

“Really…”

“Yeah, well, apparently they’re pretty aggressive. Have been every time we’ve stumbled upon them. But they’re slippery little buggers, so Krax sent the Elites on them. Rumour is it ended in an all-out battle, but nothing too serious. I don’t think there were any injuries.” Yorkley paused for a moment and Draco heard him fidget as he leant against the wall. “You didn’t see them come in, did you?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Nothing unusual last night?”

 _Please, just go away._ “Yorkely, the only interesting thing that happened to me last night was that a bird showed up at my window and rather demandingly pushed their way into my house to spend the night. Other than that, I know nothing.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Not because Draco kept his personal healing service any particular secret but because Yorkley, moments before captivated by his idealised view of the Elites, jumped on Draco’s words like a cat on a rat. A suggestive grin spread across his face, lighting up the young man’s eyes. Draco didn’t need him to speak to know he’d misinterpreted the situation. “Is that so? You don’t sound all too thrilled by the matter. Beating away the birds with a stick are you, Malfoy?”

Draco didn’t have the heart – no, the _care_ – to bother informing Yorkley that he he’d actually meant he’d been invaded by a literal bird. “Hardly. I have little time for women.”

“Blokes, then?”

Draco snapped his eyes up towards Yorkley. He frowned, glaring in a way that immediately dropped the smirk from his colleague’s face and caused him drop his gaze sheepishly to his toes. “Don’t you have work to be doing, Yorkley?”

Yorkley took the escape route generously offered. Nodding his head, he slunk from Draco’s office and disappeared with hurried footsteps that Draco noticed quickly faded into a run. Shaking his head, he turned back to the documents. The positively _enthralling_ documents of which he had to wade through pages of useless material to find that single glimmering golden nugget of usefulness.

Being an investigator in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was hardly the most glamorous of jobs. Being of the backroom researching cohort was even less so. Such a role obviously did not suit Yorkley at all; he was by and far captivated with the more active role of a Field Auror or even Field Investigator and, like so many of his colleagues past and present, simply used the role of investigative researcher as a stepping stone to that eventuality. If only the man knew that such an eventuality was slim if not impossible in likelihood. Draco could have told him that.

Not that Draco wished to pursue the career of a Field Auror himself. Far from it, in fact. Draco was perfectly happy in research, even more so with the knowledge that those glamorised Field Aurors would be nothing without the work he conducted behind the scenes. It once would have irked him to no end, to receive the absolute minimum of credit for the work he did while the darling faces of the front line fighters bathed in tides of praise. No longer. Now, he was perfectly comfortable to be firmly seated out of the public eye yet cast within the loop of law enforcement circles enough to still _know_.

Draco sorely loved the role of law enforcer. He thrived on convicting. It was a guilty pleasure of sorts, the thought of putting a Dark witch or wizard behind bars. He always felt as though, just a little bit, he was enacting justice upon those who had so wronged him in the past. A punishment more extensive than that that had been allotted to the convicted of the past.

Six years since the war had changed the Wizarding world in ways hitherto unconceived. Times were hardly as black and white, the consideration of ‘justice’ less than rigidly defined. Gone was the rigid discrimination of Muggleborns from purebloods, the resentment of the new blood to the old. Eased were the bindings of prejudice and restriction, the discrimination that pervaded Wizarding society as thickly as magic. Had Draco not borne witness to its rapid disintegration himself he would have thought the end product merely a façade draped over the dirty and tangled truths of resentment and continued hatred.

It wasn’t. How something could alter so abruptly, so completely, was ground breaking. Draco put it down to the new turn the Ministry had taken; not only Minister Shacklebolt but just about every other Deputy Minister and Head of Department seemed to have taken a vow of sanity.

For Draco at least, circumstances settled in his favour. Disregarding – if possible – the mess of the post-war trials, the imprisonment of his father and the self-imposed isolation of his mother, he’d had been left largely untouched. Well, as untouched as was possible when his entire world had been flipped upside down. But persist he did, making a firm resolution to push himself into a frame of normalcy and to endure. To make something of himself in the Wizarding world outside of the stained name of ‘Malfoy’ that had, admittedly, been buffered remarkably clean over the years.

Draco was not oblivious enough to think that his segregation from his co-workers was the fault of anyone but himself. It was simply that he didn’t particularly want to mingle, not with the plethora of wizards and witches that had enacted a rather drastic one-eighty over the years. And, after a time, the ever-optimistic band of employees in the law enforcement department accepted that. Well, most of them accepted that. Yorkley, was the exception to the rule. The man was sorely persistent.

Casting a final glance at the now empty doorway into his office, Draco shook his head and leant back into his chair. His gaze drifted idly to the clock ticking inaudibly on the wall opposite him. Ten o’clock? Was it really still so early? Or late, perhaps, considering Yorkley’s time of arrival; Head of Department Sammael Krax was evidently becoming increasingly lax with enforcing exactly when work hours begun if the gossip monger was only just finishing his rounds now. 

Flipping through his papers, Draco rose to his feet. Ten o’clock meant that Krax was finally actually in his office for a few hours. And ten o’clock, nearly a full hour after he’d arrived, meant that in all probability the department head would have shaken loose of the Aurors lining up outside his office and milling idly with the hope that getting to his office early would actually mean their business – work-related or otherwise – would similarly be dealt with early.

Fools. Draco had been working under Krax for less than three years and he still had a more profound understanding of the sheer workload of the Head’s duties.

No, give it one hour. After that, the hubbub would die and Draco would be most likely to pass straight through Krax’s doors and hand over the Lazenby files without having to wait. Which was what he always sought; there was something about the wide, single-windowed room stuffed to the brim with stacks of papers and filing cabinets that made Draco feel claustrophobic in his superior’s office. And he was one of the few people in the world – according to Yorkley – that actually enjoyed paperwork. 

To a degree, anyway. The term ‘enjoyed’ was used very lightly.

The Department of Magical Law Enforcement was always swimming with activity. Draco was one of the first to walk through the doors in the morning, and even then those already signed in were focused with heads down and attention trained. As Draco stepped from his own office and into the corridor between individual offices, he was immediately bombarded with flying paper missives, raised voices as calls echoed between doorways and the unnecessarily awkward hallway dances as employees wove around one another. 

Keeping his eyes trained on the papers in his hands – the most obtrusive way to indicate he wished to avoid speaking Draco could enact without verbalisation – he strode his way past open doors. From his periphery, he glimpsed Gisella as she scolded Frederickson from her office with orders to “pull your head in and get in done already”. He paused as the skittish puppy of an intern Ryans panted past with armloads of boxes stacked beneath a wavering pile of papers. He took a left instead of a right at the end of the hallway, taking the marginally longer route to the Head Aurors office to avoid the intense and likely irrelevant conversation of the aptly named Chatterboxes of the floor and nodded briefly at the level-headed and hard-working figure of Uma as she passed, deep in conversation with Ivanhoe.

Only once did he pause, and that was in a moment of veiled amusement as he passed Gregory’s office. He couldn’t quite help himself; the sight of Greg hunched over parchment and squinting with a disgruntled frown at the printed words would always tickle his fancy. His old school friend had, after overcoming his own hesitancies, decided to enter the Law Enforcement Department under the impression that the brute strength he wielded so well would come in handy. And yes, the Field Auror Backup Squad was more hands-on than most sectors of the department, but there would always be reports to complete, target analyses to study, context to familiarise with. Poor Greg; he’d never been much of a reader.

Krax’s office stood a little away from all but about three on the opposite wall due to its sheer size. But, like a queen bee in her hive, it sat nestled at the very centre of the floor. With a satisfied nod to himself that no line of waiters stood outside the plain door, Draco rapped his knuckles on the opaque glass window.

There was a faint, muffled grumble from inside before a voice spoke up. “Yes?”

“It’s Malfoy, sir. I’ve the Lazenby report you required for this afternoon.”

There was a pause, more muted grumbling, and Krax cleared his throat. “Of course. Come in, Malfoy, come in." 

Draco invited himself inside. As claustrophobic as always, the room actually felt even more stifling than usual for the three additional people already within. Each filled one of the extra seats and each trained a pair of eyes upon Draco as he entered, inquisitive accompaniment to the flat, moderately welcoming gaze of Krax. The big, broad man always strove to emit that welcoming aura, which wasn’t always successfully conveyed given the sheer size of the man and the similar vastness of his desk. Draco paused as the door clicked closed behind him.

Evidently, it was a rather important meeting he’d just walked into.

Tyrell Lurring was the Head of the Investigation sub-department. Draco’s boss, to be more precise. A tall, thin man with papery skin and hair nearly as pale as Draco’s, he never looked quite comfortable without his head buried beneath files and secreted tightly behind his desk. His awkwardness was only accentuated by his ramrod straight posture and crossed legs, even further by the death grip he held on both arms of his chair. Even knowing that Lurring sat in every chair the same way, Draco thought he looked uncomfortable enough to break out in twitches.

By contrast, Norm Jos was slouched easily in his own chair, legs splayed before him and solid arms crossed over his belly as though he were in his living room rather than his superior’s office. A middle-aged man, his bronze crown was as bald as an egg, the hairs seeming to have slipped from up top to instead crowd his lip. Even larger and more imposing than Krax, and without the compliment of muscle sagging into fat that was a by-product of ageing, he was made even more so by the scarlet and black embroidered robes of the Field Aurors. Draco had always found him amiable enough. Not that he ever intentionally spoken to him, of course, but Gregory seemed to think well enough of him. 

And then there was Harry Potter. Because of course, if Jos and Lurring were in a meeting with Krax then Harry would be there as well. He was the happy medium between the overly rigid Lurring and the overly comfortable Jos. Perhaps it was simply that he was the youngest of the Heads and Captains of the DMLE, but to Draco he seemed the only one that was presenting himself exactly as he should be. Harry was like that; he filled precisely the role he was supposed to as Captain of the Elite Squad. Almost too perfectly, sometimes.

At Draco’s entrance, Harry was the only one besides Krax that offered even a muted smile and nodded head of acknowledgement. Draco had to very pointedly offer him _only_ a nod before diverting his attention. It wouldn’t do any good to be distracted before his superiors. Although, after a single glance, Jos and Lurring disregarded him as the irrelevant employee that he, admittedly, was.

Shrugging of the brief flicker of awkwardness that reared its head at his intrusion, Draco crossed the room. “I apologise for the intrusion, Mr Krax. You said you required -?”

“No, no, it’s fine. Fine.” Krax waved his hand, disregarding Draco’s words. “We were done here anyway.” He took the file Draco offered to him and flipped it open. He frowned thoughtfully as he scanned the front page. “This is all of it?”

Draco nodded, studiously ignoring his audience. “All magical traces detected at the Lazenby site since the nineteen thirties, sir.”

“Up until…?”

“Present, sir,” Draco supplied. As if that wouldn’t be obvious. It was what had been asked of him, after all. Why wouldn’t he have included as much? He wasn’t so incompetent as to stray from his instructions.

Krax dropped his eyes back to the file, flipping through several pages too quickly to actually read anything. “Good. Well, then, Lurring? You expressed your desire to proceed?” Krax handed the reports to Lurring, who hesitated only a moment in his rigid immobility before reaching forwards. “Jump on it, then, I suggest.”

“It’s all here?” Lurring asked, already dropping his eyes and fingers to flick through the file. He was much more thorough than Krax had been. Draco tried not to be insulted by the suggestion, both in his words and his gestures.

“Of course it is,” Krax replied. “This is Malfoy we’re talking about.” And he offered Draco a slight nod of his head in acknowledgement before smirking knowingly to Lurring. As though Lurring, as _Draco’s boss_ , wouldn’t know of his work habits for himself.

It was gratifying, Draco supposed, that Krax held such confidence in him. Or at least he did when bespeaking his attributes to others. Draco didn’t need acknowledgement itself – his own satisfaction was enough – but it was favoured all the same.

The grumbling clearing of a throat behind him overrode Lurring’s flicking. Jos’ chair creaked slightly as he shifted. “If that’s all then, Krax?”

Krax nodded his head once more, towards Jos this time. “Of course, of course. Thank you, gentlemen. I appreciate your time. Lurring, a missive when you’ve spoken to McFergusson, if you would. Jos, would you send over Esquere when he’s finished with the clean up from last night?” Both men nodded, rising to their feet. Draco shuffled slightly to the side of the room, making room for their departure and feeling nothing if not obtrusive. Krax turned to Harry as he rose to his feet. “And Potter?” He paused.

Draco glanced towards Harry as he adopted a questioning expression. “Sir?”

Krax offered another sharp nod. “Job well done. Make sure everyone gets rested and fully healed up. I’ll not stand for any ‘R & R’ avoidance strategies this time around.”

Harry’s lips crooked in a half-smile. “I’ll do that, sir.”

At a gesture from Krax, Draco followed the other three men from the room. Jos and Lurring immediately set off in opposite directions, strides as opposite as the lumbering of a bear to the stalking of a heron. Harry, as Draco had half-assumed he would, fell into step beside him. They were silent as they made there way through the rabbit warren of hallways.

Draco and Harry had a decidedly odd relationship. Odd was the only way Draco could really perceive it; they weren’t friends exactly, but neither were they merely acquaintances. They certainly weren’t the schoolyard rivals from days of old, either. Those times had long since passed. No, if Draco were to classify what the two of them shared it would be… closer-than-colleagues? Though that didn’t sound quite right.

After the war, everything had changed. In all honesty, Draco had expected them to. How could the Wizarding world not attempt to remedy the damage that had been inflicted? To patch up the loopholes that had led to the disaster that had been Lord Voldemort? One of those changes had been to the judicial system. Gone were the wavering rules and guidelines that permitted the convicted to be shipped directly to Azkaban without a trial. Those days were safely buried in the past. Taking their place was a long-winded and almost excessively extensive succession of trials and meets, of interviews and assessments, to fully determine the facts of the topical situation.

For Draco’s trial, weeks were not long enough. Shortly after the demise of Voldemort, nerves were still tightly wound and fear bubbled just beneath the surface, fear that, should potential moles be overlooked than the unsteady repairs to the foundations of society would come toppling down once more. The tangled hairs of any and every matter were plucked at as though by a fine-toothed comb. And Draco’s was no exception.

It lasted longer than weeks. Longer than months. By the time his nineteenth birthday settled upon the horizon, Draco had long since given up any hope of the situation drawing to a close in the near future. So he had been entirely unprepared for the day that, at what he had assumed was another rudimentary and largely inconclusive sequence of interviews, he was declared innocent, his actions those of a child compelled, and set free. Entirely free.

It was only later that Draco had discovered that the reason for such could be attributed to one very particular person. Of course it would be Harry Potter.

Harry had used not his fame, nor money, nor what the press and the whispers of the higher-ranking nobles had come to refer to as a “blossoming – or perhaps long repressed – manipulative streak”, but had instead simply told the truth as he’d seen it. Of what he’d somehow known of Draco’s mission in his sixth year, of how he’d become embroiled due to the alliances of his family. Of how, at that critical moment in the manor, Draco had denied that Harry was indeed the misshapen figure presented to him. And for whatever reason, Harry’s word, blunt and honest, had been enough. With merely a substantial payment of recompense for damages inflicted, Draco was let loose.

It had been a period of befuddled stasis for Draco following his trial. Suddenly gifted with the opportunity to live his life once more – albeit with the absence of his father and mother, forcibly and freely isolated from society respectively – he had little knowledge of what to make of himself. The opportunities seemed endless. To finish school? To pursue a career? To dedicate himself to the commitments of a Malfoy businessman, as so many of his ancestors had done before him? He could even break from tradition, taking himself on an international soul-searching journey, should he feel so inclined. He could do _anything_.

So he went to visit Harry. Granted, it took a while. A whole year and a half of a while to work up the courage and quash his pride for long enough to make the fateful reunion. Over a year after he’d firmly established himself in a position at the ministry, Draco found himself sitting across from his former rival over tea and a too-dense slice of bunting. Awkward had not been an adequate enough phrase to describe how Draco felt. Or at least it had felt awkward from his perspective. 

Harry Potter had changed in the years since the war. Not all that much physically – that hair would forever remain apparently untameable and he’d just about finished growing in school – excepting for the replacement of those horrendous and ill-fitting round glasses with markedly more modern ones. That, and apparently someone had made an effort to outfit his wardrobe with something more appropriate than the cast-offs of an adolescent half-giant.

No, Harry was just… different. Calmer. Almost serene. Not dull or lifeless, to be sure, but whereas in the past Draco had only every beheld a fiery spark in his eyes, a barely restrained volatility, there now settled calm contentedness… and a faint a quirk of amusement the tilt of his eyebrow as he stared back at Draco. As though they shared some sort of joke that Draco was not partial to. And in spite of himself, for whatever reason, that amusement didn’t irritate Draco as much as it once would have. And still should have.

There was no _hostility_. That was the biggest difference. Or at least, if it remained at all it was certainly not directed towards Draco. That raging lion of discontent and rivalry seemed instead in slumber. Not gone but simply… irrelevant. Draco could hardly fathom the amiable, almost openly friendly young man as evolving from the boy he’d known from his school days.

Finally the silence had appeared to come to a natural close for Harry. “Is there something you wanted, Malfoy?”

Dropping his eyes down to his tea – it really was quite fine; it was a shame the bunting was so poor when the beverage so good – Draco had tapped a finger on the table. “Why did you do it?”

Harry’s bubbling amusement had faded into puzzlement. “Why did I do what?”

Clicking his tongue, Draco had frowned at him accusingly. “Why did you stand for me? At my trial. You spoke in my favour. I’m not a fool, Potter. I’m not oblivious enough to assume that I would have gotten off so easily had you not done so.”

Letting his eyes drift, Harry had dropped his own attention to his cooling tea. He’d shrugged one shoulder. “There’s no particular reason. It was just the right thing to do.”

“For me?”

“For… everything.” Another shrug. “I don’t see any reason why I should have withheld the truth. And it was the truth, Malfoy.” Harry’s gaze drew back upwards to meet Draco’s. His expression was intent. Still lacking in any heat, but intent nonetheless.

Draco had shaken his head slowly. “But you hate me.”

Harry had snorted. “I don’t hate you, Malfoy.”

“Yes, Potter, you do.”

“No, I don’t. Maybe in the past, but not anymore. Especially not since…” Harry switched back to regarding his tea once more. He shifted in the first sign of unease he’d shown since arriving at the café. “After everything that happened, our petty school rivalry sort of seems a little trivial now, doesn’t it? I couldn’t imagine going back to those mundane fights. It just seems so… pointless.”

They hadn’t seemed trivial or mundane to Draco. Not until that point. Somehow, he’d always assumed that no matter what, some things – things like the butting of heads he’d shared with Harry – would last forever. But then, he’d always considered when he as young that his family would always remain close, that they would always have one another. At that time, school, Slytherin, his quidditch team, his exams; they had all seemed like the most important things in the world.

All of that had changed. And while Draco had still stared at Harry across the table in the little café, rocking back in his seat, he’d considered: why not this, too?

Shaking himself from his stupor, Draco leant forwards towards Harry. “Then what do you want, Potter?”

Harry had peered up at him from beneath lowered brows. “What do I want?”

“From me? What do you -?”

“ _You’re_ the one who asked to meet _me_ , Malfoy.” 

Draco had sighed, exasperated. “I know that. I mean, what do you want from me? In return. In payment. What do you want?”

Harry’s frown had only deepened. “Payment?”

“Yes, Potter.” It had been an effort to tone down the sarcasm in his voice as much as he had. “You did me a service. A favour if you would. I’d like to repay it.”

“I don’t want anything.”

“That’s not how favours work,” Draco had ground out. Withholding a grumble at Harry’s obtuseness had been an effort too.

Except that Harry hadn’t appeared to be acting obtuse. Not in the least. Rather, he’d seemed genuinely baffled by Draco’s words. He’d slowly shaken his head. “I don’t want anything from you. And I don’t need anything, either.”

“But then…” Draco had trailed off, at a loss. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. He had to offer _some_ thing. It was distressing to be left treading water in such an unprecedented situation.

Harry seemed to realise as much and took pity on Draco. Or perhaps he actually had thought of something. “Malfoy, if you really want to do something for me, just act normal. Do what you’ve been doing.”

“What do you mean?”

Harry had shrugged. “I mean the world’s been turned on its head. Everything’s crazy and no one quite seems to remember the little things of the past. The good bits. Sure, there’s the ‘post-war fever’ running high and everyone’s pretty much on board with that, but they’re forgetting all the other bits that don’t need to be forgotten, you know?”

Despite his lack of eloquence, Draco was left a little stunned by the maturity of Harry’s sentiment. The good bits? At present, Draco couldn’t quite recall such ‘good bits’. He supposed that was largely the problem with everyone else, too. But there must have been some, surely. Not everything before the climax of the war had been darkness and despair. Far from it, really, when Draco actually thought about it.

“So you want me to act… normal?”

A beaming smile had stretched across Harry’s face and Draco was left blinking in stunned surprise. He’d never seen Harry direct such an expression towards him before. “That’s it exactly.”

“You do realise you’re asking for a bit of a paradox, don’t you?” Draco had strived for casualness, not allowing the effect Harry’s good humour had upon him to show. “You want me to be normal, and yet you don’t seem to want to be my enemy? You don’t want to fight?” Even to Draco it had sounded almost childish when spoken aloud.

Harry had quirked his lips, his frown resettling. It was almost sad to see his smile disappear. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right.” Then, like a dog shaking off water, he’d disregarded the thought. “Whatever. You can still fight if you want to.”

“That would be a little difficult if I was the only one participating,” Draco had pointed out.

Harry laughed. He actually laughed. At Draco. And it wasn’t snide, or cruel, or mocking. That smile was back and it left Draco just as stunned as it had the first time. “That’s very true. Well, you can always try?”

“What a pointless endeavour,” Draco had muttered, burying his nose in his cup to distract himself from Harry’s jovial expression.

“It doesn’t have to have a point, so long as it makes you happy,” Harry had replied. “Just do what you want, Malfoy. Whatever you want.”

When Draco had lifted his eyes from his cup once more, it was that smile upon Harry’s face, not quite as wide but somehow deeper, that had resounded with him. It was that memory which remained strongest thereafter, too.

From that point onwards, Draco unconsciously – or perhaps consciously, though he would forever deny as much – sought to pursue the vision that Harry had unwittingly presented. Which was how he’d wound up in law enforcement. Having been deprived of his final year of school and hence the chance to achieve his N.E.W.Ts before the age of eighteen, he’d thrown himself instead into the arduous climb from the bottom rungs of begrudgingly obedient intern, to unobtrusive backdoor employee, to run-of-the-mill office worker and finally managed to plant a foot in the door of the Investigatory Department. It was very much the roundabout route for Draco, and he likely could have sliced the time it had taken him in half had he been prepared to return to school.

He hadn’t been. Something about being a year older than his would-be classmates had left a bad taste in his mouth.

By the time he’d settled himself into the DMLE, he had similarly settled himself with the understanding that Harry Potter was a young but outstanding Auror. Weasley too, though that mattered markedly less to Draco; he had, somehow, been able to see past the years of rivalry he’d shared with Harry – it had taken months of careful consideration and contemplation, but he’d gotten there – but Weasley? No, they’d never be on what Draco could call friendly terms. Even if Weasley, like every other Wizard in Britain, seemed to be attempting as much with him.

They didn’t see all that much of one another in the office, Draco and Harry, but it was enough to firmly establish that, yes, their rivalry had died. And oddly enough, Draco found that to be a rather pleasant surprise. For in the brief exchanges they’d shared, there was something decidedly different about Harry’s treatment of him than everyone else’s. There was no walking on eggshells or, at the opposite end of the spectrum, exaggerated joviality and forwardness in pursuing some sort of friendly relationship. Harry simply… was. He spoke with Draco, they conversed in formal words that gradually became less formal with time, and quite soon fell into a settled state.

Their ‘closer-than-colleagues’ status.

At some point along the way, in spite of his attempts at distancing himself from everyone but his oldest of friends, Draco had come to realise that, in a way, he was comfortable with Harry. Comfortable enough that he had, also at some point, come to call him ‘Harry’, just as Harry called him ‘Draco’. For the life of him he couldn’t remember the exact moment it had happened. It simply had.

Draco didn’t refer to any of his other co-workers with such familiarity. That right was reserved solely for his friends. That Harry wasn’t exactly a friend was… confusing.

For his part, Harry didn’t seem particularly confused by any of it. Quite the contrary, he appeared perfectly comfortable with their arrangement. And just as he was walking side by side with Draco from Krax’s office, so had he accompanied Draco on numerous occasions simply to walk. And chat.

Not that Draco ever did anything quite so casual as ‘chatting’.

“You finished that more quickly than Lurring expected,” Harry said, finally breaking their easy silence. It was always he that did so; Draco intentionally held his tongue for reasons he would rather keep to himself.

Draco glanced at him sidelong. “What?”

“The Lazenby report. He was fretting over it just before, but I got the impression he’d resigned himself to being unable to do anything about hastening it along.”

Draco shook his head, rolling his eyes. “Fretting? Over a case of unidentified magic on an uninhabited plot of land? He needs more to think about if that is what consumes his mind."

Harry smirked. “You’re probably right. Although, he seems to think it holds some relevance to what’s going on down in Devon.”

“Does he really?” Draco replied with mild interest. He wasn’t the one paid to connect the dots, even if such a role did tickle his fancy. Devon was about as inconclusive as Lazenby so far, but at least it held more notable discord.

Harry nodded. “Yeah, they have an almost identical magical signature, he thinks. Or Mindle thinks, but Lurring pretty much takes everything Mindle says as lore. He wanted to compare the Hades Geiger readings, he was saying. I don’t suppose you’d know…?”

Trailing off, Harry turned towards Draco expectantly. There was a question in his expression but no presumptuousness, which was as gratifying for Draco as it was vexing. Harry’s resolution towards passivity, at least regarding Draco, seemed to pervade to the limits. Though he asked questions and infrequently even favours of Draco regarding his work, it never appeared to be mercenary. They were more the words of a colleague who appreciated that Draco knew more about a subject than he himself and was utilising such knowledge in conjunction to his own to reach a mutually beneficial conclusion.

It was so far removed from the Harry Potter Draco vaguely recalled from their schooling days as to seem almost a different person. Or perhaps that was just because his perspective had shifted. Surely Golden Boy Harry Potter, all-round favourite Gryffindor idol and defender of minimalistic workloads, hadn’t been quite so objective. Had he?

Adopting a bored expression, Draco turned down the hallway to the right, once more avoiding the Chatterboxes that remained stationed at the chosen post. “And what interest, pray tell, does an Elite have in the Hades Geiger scale?” The Geiger readings, developed by the Half-blood Wizarding scientist who similarly specialised in radioactivity, was used excessively in measuring the residue of Dark magic. The very use of such a scale answered Draco’s question itself, but he had no compunctions about playing ignorant. Or at least he didn’t in this case.

Harry grinned at him easily, seeing right through him. “Personally, not all that much. It’s too much number crunching for my taste, thank you.”

“Ah, so that’s why you avoided Arithmancy in third year. I thought you were simply appalling at mathematics.”

“It’s not the reason, actually,” Harry replied. “But that’s irrelevant. I’m just curious because I’m taking a look at Devon next week after ‘R & R’.”

Draco paused mid step. “ _You_ are?”

Harry similarly paused several paces further down the hall and glanced over his shoulder. “Yes. Is that so hard to believe?”

Shaking his head, Draco slowly caught back up to him, falling in step once more as they continued. “Not really. I was just under the impression that it was still undergoing the investigative stage at the moment.”

“Yeah, well, the investigators are coming up blank, so Krax put my squad on it.”

“Should you be telling me this? Isn’t that sort of thing classified?”

Harry raised an eyebrow at him. “Are you going to tell anyone?”

“Of course not.”

“Then I hardly see that it matters.”

The walked a few more steps in silence before Harry spoke up once more. “So?”

“So what?”

“God, Draco, it’s like pulling bloody teeth with you, isn’t it?”

Draco suppressed his urge to smirk self-satisfyingly. He paused just long enough for Harry to favour him with another raised eyebrow and pointed look. “You want the Hades reading for Lazenby or Devon?”

“Do you know Devon’s?”

“No.”

“Well it’s a good thing I do, then.” Harry grinned at the scowl Draco directed towards him. “The Lazenby one, please.”

Sighing long-sufferingly, Draco bowed his head. “Last week the Hades Geiger reading skyrocketed to higher than it’s been recorded in the entire past century. Up to eight-point-four-one.”

Harry’s eyebrows rose. “Eight?”

“Point-four-one, yes,” Draco added in slow condescension.

“Huh…”

“I’m assuming this holds significance to you?”

Harry’s pace had slowed as his eyes drifted towards the floor. They stared unseeingly, however, and a contemplative frown settled on his forehead. “You could say that.”

“Is it the same?”

Harry’s lips quirked to the side. “Exactly.”

Draco’s own eyebrows rose. “Well. I suppose that does have some significance. Though the importance of such a similarity is unknown.”

Harry nodded, eyes still downcast. “That’s what Krax is sending me and my squad out for.”

“To what, scout around? To just see what you can find?”

“Basically, yeah.”

Draco frowned sidelong at Harry as they passed through the open communal offices of the Law Enforcement Department. It was strange that Krax would send the Elites into the field for such an inconclusive mission. They were the special forces enlisted for extreme and high-level magical combat situations. So few operations involved anyone working alongside them because they would undoubtedly simply get in the way.

It had been a year that Draco had been working at the ministry, finally having climbed to the role of a general office worker, that he’d realised Harry was a part of the elitist squad. Another year after that to reach the understanding that he was not only a part of it but was the captain. That fact didn’t surprise Draco as much as it perhaps should have. Harry Potter, Once Saviour of the Wizarding world and Boy-Who-Lived-Twice, was basically a figurehead for Defender of Justice and Pursuer of Evil. Of course he would be the captain.

What did surprise Draco was that the Elite squad had not even existed before Harry had joined the Auror ranks. Apparently, he was too ‘special’ to warrant anything but his own tailored and exalted position. That fact didn’t irk Draco nearly as much as it once would have either. Not at all, really. Truth be told, he would have been thoroughly disconcerted should Harry _not_ have been afforded such a position.

That realisation, that understanding of himself, was one of many that informed Draco that while Harry had indeed changed, Draco had almost as much. He didn’t actually resent Harry for his elitist position in the slightest Besides, it wasn’t as though Draco himself had any inclination towards being a Field Auror. He preferred to keep his skin intact, thank you very much.

“Strange…”

“Not really. I think Krax is just a bit paranoid.” Harry’s reply was the only thing that alerted Draco to the fact that he’d spoken aloud. “A Hades reading of eight –“

“Eight-point-four-one.”

“- is pretty bloody high. The Bilarny twins’ operation out at Coventry was only about a six and a half and they’re both exceptionally powerful witches.”

Draco nodded, ceding. “Fair enough. Maybe you will find something.”

“But you doubt it,” Harry supplied, amusement touching his tones. “Where’s the confidence, Draco?”

“I never said that,” Draco replied. He tried not to let that familiar unease at the way Harry just seemed to hear his unspoken words show. The expression on Harry’s face suggested he heard that thought, too. “I don’t know all that much about Devon, but I’d be prepared to inform you of that which I am familiar with. At Lazenby.”

The shifting smile Harry gave Draco was enough to mollify him of the pain offering such a favour caused him. For whatever reason, Harry’s smile always had the capacity to do that to him. “Thanks, Draco. But I think it’s –“

“Harry!”

Draco would have sneered at the sound of Weasley’s voice had he not been so practiced at withholding the knee-jerk reaction. He and Harry had paused in the middle of a crossroads of hallways, on the brink of departing from their companionship and heading into respective directions, so of course Weasley chose that moment to appear.

The tall redhead strode towards them, eyes fixed on Harry with the deliberate directedness of one striving to overlook a rather unpleasant and unavoidable sight alongside him. He didn’t quite ignore Draco, but it was a near thing. Draco knew that he kept a half-turned eye upon him, so settled his own rising annoyance at the very sight of the subordinate Elite by assuming an aloof, dismissive visage of mild condescension. It worked like a charm if the vein that pulsed briefly in the centre of Weasley’s forehead was any indication.

Weasley, unlike Harry, had never quite gotten used to the fact that the war had passed. At least not regarding Draco. Similarly, he had not been able to quite overlook their schoolyard rivalry. Weasley was one of the many who strove for formal and respectable distancing from Draco and everything he entailed, rather than attempting to embrace – or at least attempt – an amiable relationship with him.

People like Granger, for instance. Unlike Harry’s smiles, those of the Muggleborn witch would never appear quite so genuine, her attempts at friendliness never shaken loose of their stiltedness. Considering they were both Harry’s friends – Harry, who seemed so capable of such – it was quite remarkable to Draco that they were so incompetent in that regard. Further still, Granger was supposed to be intelligent; one didn’t get a reserve seat on the Board of the Cooperation with Magical Creatures with stupidity.

Deliberately ignoring the subtle, unspoken request of Weasley to ‘clear out’, Draco cocked his head placidly and regarded the two ex-Gryffindors. Weasley’s vein throbbed once more, but Harry looked almost as amused as Draco felt.

Finally, after a stretch of silence, Weasley spoke up. Not to Draco, of course. He wasn’t quite capable of that yet, not even after six years. “Harry, could I talk to you in my office for a moment?”

Amusement threatened to spread another smile over Harry’s face, but he somehow managed to withhold it. “’Course, Ron. What’s wrong?”

“My office,” Weasley repeated, jerking his head in the direction towards the way Harry had been headed. Draco almost snorted.

So, apparently, did Harry. He withheld it by presenting a sigh instead. “Sure. Won’t be a second.” He turned his attention back to Draco. “Thanks for that, Draco. I might take you up on that offer. I’ll see where Lurring goes with the collated reports.”

Draco bowed his head in a nod. “You do that.” And he turned to leave.

“Oh, Draco?”

Pausing in step, Draco glanced over his shoulder. Harry murmured something to Weasley – it looked like a direction for the gesture towards Weasley’s office – before turning his attention back towards him. “Are you coming out for drinks tomorrow night?”

For some reason, no matter how many times Harry asked him, Draco was always a little surprised by the offer. “Drinks?”

“The same as every Friday,” Harry said.

Draco fought the urge to cringe in distaste. “I will have to forego such an offer.”

“You don’t have to,” Harry attempted.

“Oh, but I do. I sincerely doubt that some,” and Draco cast a pointed glance towards Weasley who had retreated but a handful of steps down the hallway and now stood waiting with an expression of forced neutrality on his face, “would appreciate my presence.”

“What happened to doing what you want, Draco?”

Ah, those fated words. How did Harry know they’d clung to Draco over the years? “I am choosing to do what I want. And that is not to come.”

For a brief moment, something unreadable dimmed Harry’s expression. It was gone before Draco could discern its nature, however, to fast for Draco to even feel sorry he had induced it. “Alright, then. Maybe next time.”

 _Unlikely_ , Draco thought, but nodded nonetheless. As he turned back towards his office, he heard the barely whispered words of Weasley ringing deeply behind him. “I don’t know why you ask every time. It’s not like he’ll ever say yes.”

Draco could hear Harry shrug even without looking. “Maybe he will someday.”

“Unlikely,” Weasley replied, eerily voicing Draco’s own thoughts. He resolutely closed his ears to their murmurs as he strode away

If there was anything that would induce him to partake in something so casual, so intimate, as a drinking night with colleagues, it would be Weasley’s scepticism at his inclination. More even than Harry’s mildly persistent encouragement. Unfortunately, for Draco, that was just one line he couldn’t cross. Such familiarity, even with Harry whom he was almost comfortable with, would be pushing it too far.

Besides, Jack usually dropped by on Friday night. And it was mid-winter; he couldn’t exactly leave the merlin out in the cold to freeze to death waiting for him. Only because he didn’t want to have to pry a frozen bird from his window sill.

Of course that was the reason. The only reason.


	3. Unwanted Guests

Draco had never liked animals. He could attribute that dislike to one too many bad experiences in Care of Magical Creatures at Hogwarts, but that wasn’t truly the reason. Animals just didn’t seem to like him all that much; a confrontation with a cat would land him a smattering of scratches and a dog would be more likely to growl at him and back away than to approach him for a belly rub.

He’d swear to within an inch of his life that it was because _he_ disliked _animals_ that they were so averse to him. That they were able to tell that he disdained them and so returned the feeling in kind. Only to himself would he admit that it was actually the other way around.

Birds were no better than cats or dogs. Anything with a mouth even vaguely resembling a beak immediately transported Draco back to his third year and the bastard of a hippogriff that nearly tore his arm off. He had since learned that he valued his appendages far too greatly to mingle with the feathered cretins. It had taken nothing short of exposure therapy to quash the reflexive inclination to clench his fists whenever he even saw a bird.

For that reason, among many, Draco would never understand what compelled him to pick up the broken merlin that day.

It was late on an early spring evening when Draco was trudging home. He was exhausted; only recently had he been promoted from what was largely acknowledged as the dregs of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. ‘Office worker’ was hardly a glamorous title, but Draco was proud of himself. At least now he was no longer the first one the higher ups turned to when they wanted a coffee. He must be at least fifth down on the list now.

Smittson’s View was a ghost town after six o’clock in the afternoon. It was nearly ten o’clock in the evening, over twelve hours since Draco had left that morning. The handful of streets of identical little houses with nearly identical front gardens hunkered in sleepy quietness. Ever early, the artificial lights of the surrounding Muggle homes were flickering out. With weariness weighing upon his shoulders, Draco doubted he’d be far behind his neighbours. Their general reclusiveness was one of many reasons why he’d chosen to move to the little town in the first place.

He nearly stepped on the bird as he crossed the rain-damp road into Wanderer Lane. At first through the heavy darkness, Draco had considered it to be a misshapen discarded rag, or perhaps a deflated sack of rubbish. Then, upon closer inspection, peering uneasily into the gloom, he’d thought the bird was dead.

It wasn’t. Sidestepping the creature and affording it a wide berth apparently wasn’t distance enough for him to escape its notice. In a shuffle of feathers and spasm of wings, the bird flopped into motion.

Draco nearly leapt a foot in the air. Not that he was scared of the bird, but… it did have beak. And he was certain said beak would bite if he got to close, even in what was evidently a state of near-death. He had no inclination of getting close enough to be touched.

 _I should kill the thing_. _Put it out of its misery._

The charitable thought flashed across Draco’s mind quite unexpectedly. Had a quick glance around himself into the overcast gloom of the street not proved him to be quite alone, he may have suspected that another had pushed it upon him. Still, for whatever reason, it clung to his mind, unshakeable. 

Stepping tentatively towards the dying creature, Draco drew his wand from his pocket. Crouching a foot away, he pointed towards it. A simple spell would do the trick; bird bones were fragile, could snap with a well-aimed jerk of the neck. It wouldn’t take much. 

And yet, as he opened his mouth to speak the words, his breath stuttered to a halt. For even sprawled, apparently broken in the middle of the road, the bird had trained its eyes upon him. Eyes that, even in the darkness, Draco could somehow discern. They reflected what little light the faded Muggle street lights shed, flat black yet somehow defiant. As though it refuted his very thought that would trigger its death. 

Which was utterly ridiculous. A ridiculous notion. There was no way the bird could…

No _way_ it could have _…_

How Draco ended up levitating the creature home was beyond him. He hated animals, hated birds most of all, but somehow that unblinking gaze, the rapid, frantic rise and fall of the birds breast while the rest of its limbs remained in taut motionlessness, had caught him. The bird would probably die anyway; he just wouldn’t be the one to hasten it along.

Draco’s house was nearly identical to those on either side of it. A small flat, the picture perfect building was plain to the extreme, with white-grey walls and terracotta roofing. It lacked even the tentatively blossoming vibrancy of the garden beds ringing his neighbours front lawns, leaving the white-grey picket fence starkly bare.

Inside was just as sparse; since moving from Malfoy Manor, Draco had found it difficult to make any place truly homely. He lived in the little single bedroom flat, number eight, Wanderer Lane, but it wasn’t his home. Even if it was slightly more so than the stained walls and empty rooms of the manor no was. A modest kitchen outfitted with rudimentary Muggle appliances – Draco was still in an uneasy state of mixed disdain and wariness when considering the microwave – a similarly simple dining room and a sitting room just large enough for a two-seater couch and low coffee table wedged around one of the smallest fireplaces he’d ever seen. His bedroom was the largest room afforded him and with his desk and bed within he found he spent most of his time there.

It was functional. Simple to the extreme. Spartan, perhaps, if one were to tag it with a specific name. Draco refrained from adorning the walls with pictures, from placing nostalgic ornaments on every available surface, even from filling the minimal shelving with anything less than the bare necessities of functionality. His general desire for cleanliness likely enhanced the minimalistic outfitting, but who was to judge? He let few enough people past his doorway anyway. And it was how he liked it. Besides, it wasn’t as though Draco spent more than a handful of hours within the four walls, and most of those were in sleep.

Illuminating the dining room with a _Lumos_ – because he’d never quite grown comfortable with Muggle lighting in the months he’d lived alone – Draco directed the levitating bird into the centre of the table. After an _Impervius_ charm cast on the wood, of course, because the bird was dirty; he didn’t want it spreading its germs. It landed with a heavy thump that he refused to cringe at and lay immobile save for the rapid rise and fall of its breast. And those eyes.

They still stared at Draco, watching and suspicious, defiant despite its incapability to do _anything_. It almost seemed to dare Draco to make an aggressive motion towards it; he very nearly believed that, even injured as it was, it would be more than capable of attacking him at a moment’s notice. 

Folding his arms across his chest, Draco studied his would-be patient. Under the white glow of his _Lumos_ , he could make out more of its features, the smattering of colouration dulled to shades of grey by the darkness. From the shape of it, of the beak and the talons just visible under the haphazardly skewed feathers, he knew it to be a bird of prey of sorts. A hawk, maybe, or a falcon. A small one, though, at not even the length of his forearm. He was no expert on birds, and he could hardly profess the desire to be as much, but he thought the pale, speckled plumage of its chest, the equally pale collar around its neck, looked vaguely familiar.

Shaking his head, he took a step towards the table. The bird didn’t move, though its eyes stayed fixed upon him. He crouched to get a better look at it, an attempt to gauge the site of the injury.

He didn’t even know what to look for.

“I’m no bloody Healer, let alone a veterinarian. What am I supposed to…?” Shaking his head in exasperation at his own impulsivity, he edge forwards slightly more. He wouldn’t touch the bird – no, he had a wand and magic for that – but maybe he could try and fix it up. Bandage it or something before sending it on its way. Maybe the injury wasn’t that bad?

Hefting his wand, he swept it in a series of diagnostic charms over the bird. Granted, they were intended for humans, but he didn’t very well have the knowledge to do as much. As it turned out, he didn’t really need to. A list of faintly glowing words hung suspended in green-white script above the bird, reflecting in its black eyes.

_2.5mm fracture, left humerus, upper dorsal side_

_Mild concussion, residual effects_

_13.7mm cutaneous laceration, left forelimb, upper dorsal side_

_Internal bruising, left ribs 1, 2, 3_

_Skin abrasions: lower left hindlimb; metatarsals 1, 2, 3; upper left torso; upper dorsal left forearm…_

The list declined into what was evidently constituted of lesser severity and finishing with ‘ _forcible removal of excrescences from left cheek’_. It was an admirably long list. Draco turned his attention back towards the bird. “You’ve done a number on yourself, then, haven’t you?”

The bird didn’t reply except to glare. Or he thought it glared. It looked like a glare.

  
Sighing, Draco tapped his wand onto the crook of his elbow. It sent the shadows to dancing on the wall, but he hardly noticed. Though a big part of him was still questioning what in the name of Salazar he was doing attempting to look after an injured bird. The other part, smaller and faintly curious, was already considering what to do next. 

He could take it to a veterinarian. He should. Not that he knew the location of any – Wizarding animal doctors were a sparse breed – but that would be the logical thing to do. Or he could attempt to patch up the bird himself.

The notion caused him to snort at its very ridiculousness. Patch it up? What, bandage the creature? Wrap its poorly wing in gauze and splint, stitch up its cuts and smooth its ruffled feathers like a mother cat fussing over her wayward kitten? No, such an approach was _not_ an option. Not for him. He’d sooner kill the bird. In fact, he was still questioning why he hadn’t yet.

If he knew anyone that had the faintest knowledge of birds he’d send his charge over to them. He didn’t. He purposefully avoided such enthusiasts. The closest that came to it was his friend Millicent Bulstrode and her interests lay more in the overflowing masses of cats she’d accumulated in her two-bedroom flat in London.

Which… wasn’t all that much of a bad idea, actually. Surely she’d know the nearest veterinarian to contact, at least.

Abandoning the bird, Draco made his way to the living room fireplace. A spark from his wand immediately grew into a crackling flame, and a pinch of Floo powder later saw him kneeling face first into green flames, the words “Millicent Bulstrode, Living Room, nineteen Albania Cresent, London” rolling from his tongue.

Millicent’s living room swum into visibility after mere seconds of swirling vertigo. Draco’s tongue paused in the act of announcing his own arrival to twist his lips in a disgusted sneer. “Millicent, are those beasts attempting to smother you?”

From his window through the fireplace, Draco could make out the sight of his friend curled sleepily in her leather couch, a cup of tea in her hands and a veritable blanket of what must be at least a dozen cats sprawled atop her. The plump, short-haired young woman appeared nothing of the kind to fuss and coo over kittens; even at barely twenty she possessed a sharp severity to her blunt features that suggested her more inclined to smile as she drowned said kittens. She turned her severe expression from the book propped across her knees at Draco’s words and that hardness faded infinitesimally.

“Draco. What an unexpected and unpleasant surprise." 

“Answer the question, Bulstrode. Should I offer you a lifeline or leave you to your doom?”

Smirking slightly, Millicent closed her book and settled herself more comfortably into her seat, fingers wrapping around her teacup. “Are you still afraid of cats, Draco?” 

“I am not afraid of them –“

“Oh, really? When did that change?”

Scowling, Draco glanced to the side in deliberate disdain of her question. He paused for long enough to inform his old friend that such a conversation was now very much dropped. “I require your assistance." 

“Is that so?”

“It is. Now, if you would." 

Millicent paused to take a sip from her cup. “No.”

The answer was expected. “And if I say please?”

“Still no.”

Pausing to avoid any sense of urgency from seeping into his tone – such a slip would be intolerable, not to mention it was irrelevant to his current circumstances – Draco sighed. “Are you otherwise occupied at the moment?”

Millicent shrugged. “I was reading.”

“Which you now are not.”

“And I’m drinking my tea.” She took a deliberate sip that slurped just short of rudely.

Rolling his eyes, Draco fixed Millicent with a hooded expression. “Spare me the indulgence. You don’t even really like tea. I require your assistance. The cause is just, I can assure you.”

Millicent pouted at his words, the expression disconcerting on her unforgiving face but so familiar to Draco that he barely batted an eyelid. “When have you ever done anything ‘just’, Draco? And I do like tea.” 

“Anything with more than two sugars classifies it as a beverage other than tea.”

“No it doesn’t. Don’t be objectionable. The ratio of dirty water to milk to sugar matters little when considering the basic components –“

“Millicent, spare me, _please_ ,” Draco repeated, sighing once more at the fact that _Millicent_ dared to suggest that anyone else was ‘objectionable’. His tiredness from a long day at work was beginning to make itself known and he was regretting more and more not simply killing the bird that was currently sprawled across his dining table. “I have a situation with a near-dead creature in my dining room which I would much rather sort out now rather than after your tirade. If you would be so kind?"

His words seemed a trigger for Millicent; they actually stoppered her rising spiel. Lowering her teacup, she frowned. “A near dead animal.”

“I believe that is what I just said.” 

“Is it a cat?”

 _No._ “Yes. Would you -?”

Draco didn’t even get the chance to finish his sentence before Millicent was urging her cat-blanket from her lap and rising to her feet. She was dressed as for bed, shrouded in a night robe, but that didn’t appear to phase her resolution for immediate action now that she had decided to undertake it. She paused only to place her cup on the coffee table and shoo Draco from her fireplace before following him through in a spit of ash and flames.

If there was anything that could urge Millicent to move post-haste, it was a cat. Any cat. Anywhere.

“Did you find it injured?” Millicent asked as she followed Draco from the living room. The snideness and mulish undertones had faded, curiosity and even a hint of concern taking their place. Draco knew that Millicent would never allow such a part of her character to become known to anyone other than her closest friends. She’d be nothing short of horrified to be considered even the slightest bit kind. 

“Are you suggesting that I perhaps injured it myself?”

Millicent shrugged. “If the insanity I’ve long been waiting for suddenly overcame you, yes.”

“Hilarious,” Draco replied dryly. “And no, I didn’t. I found it like that.” He gestured with his still-lit wand towards the table. Towards the bird that had not moved an inch since he’d left it. It still glared at him, though that glare appeared to have dampened somewhat. Or perhaps it was simply that its attention was now divided between two people. Maybe it was already dying?

Millicent paused at the edge of the dining table. Her expression became deceptively blank as she stared down at the creature spread before her. Very slowly, she turned towards Draco. “Draco, are you perhaps going blind?" 

Smirking, Draco raised an eyebrow. “I am not.”

“Then perhaps your sanity is truly degrading. Are you senile?”

“I am not that either.”

“I would suggest you get yourself tested. For that,” Millicent gestured towards the bird. “Is certainly not a cat.”

Inclining his head, Draco smiled wider. “Ah, but would you have come had I suggested otherwise.”

“Most certainly not.”

“Then I rest my case."  
  
The glare Millicent turned upon him rivalled that of the birds. “You try my patience, Draco. I don’t know why I even consider you a friend.”

“That you do positively warms the cockles of my heart,” Draco said, before deliberately turning from her increasingly fierce glare towards his charge. “But since you’re here already, perhaps you could offer your assistance?”

“I’m disinclined –“

“Then perhaps a veterinarian?” Draco interrupted over Millicent’s disgruntled reply. “I’ve hardly the inclination myself to care for the thing. It would be a delight to get it off my hands.”

He could still feel the glare spearing him, but Millicent didn’t reply immediately. The silence stretched until finally Draco deemed it safe to glance towards her once more. Her expression had become thoughtful and speculative rather than bordering on murderous and, grateful though he was, Draco wasn’t entirely sure that was a good thing. A thoughtful Millicent didn’t bode well for him.

A moment longer of unblinking staring, long enough for Draco to develop a very distinct feeling of unease, and Millicent nodded her head shortly. “Alright. Fine. I’ll patch up your bird for you.”

“You will?” Draco blinked in rapid succession, surprised. “Wait, _my_ bird.”

“Yes, _your_ bird.” Millicent elbowed him out of her way as she drew her wand and leant over the immobile creature. “If I do this for you, you’re going to look after it.”

The thought caused Draco’s gut to clench horribly. “I most certainly will not.”

“Yes, you will,” Millicent replied, scanning the results of her own diagnostic charm. “Unless you want me to inform Blaise of what a pathetic mother hen you are, picking up a poor, injured little bird off the side of the road.”

Well, she was certainly throwing out the most dangerous of threats. Blaise was the very cogs of the rumour mill, even more so than Pansy when it came to _starting_ rumours. If he knew that Draco had acted even faintly coddling – whether it was entirely true or not – then such knowledge would become public within the hour. Blaise had little want or ability to hold his tongue. “You wouldn’t.”

Millicent smirked cruelly at him over her shoulder. “Oh, I most certainly would. And you’ll look after your bird until it gets better. No veterinarian or anything.”

Draco found himself shaking his head in horror. “You wouldn’t be so cruel.”

“Believe me, I would. Take it as a lesson to never try to trick me into anything ever again.” She wordlessly spelled a ribbon-like strip of bandage into existence and coaxed it towards the bird where it promptly began winding itself around the conjured splint and left wing. The bird trembled and flinched under her ministrations but whether it was due to stupefying fear, exhaustion, anger or pain was uncertain. At least it didn’t attempt to escape. 

“Oh, don’t look so mortified,” Millicent chortled as she cast Draco another glance. “It won’t be for long. Look, it’s just the fracture that will take a couple of days. I don’t know how bird arms work –“

“I believe they’re called wings,” Draco muttered dazedly.

“- so I’ve just had to put an healing accelerant on it. It’ll be out of your hands before the end of the week.”

“Millicent…” Draco uttered in almost a moaned. He was only distantly aware that his words sounded more of a whine than anything else, but the crux of the matter was far more important. _I don’t want to look after a bloody bird!_ The temptation of his bed was looking like a mocking impossibility. Why hadn’t he just killed the thing and saved himself the trouble?

“And don’t even think about killing this bird, Draco,” Millicent continued, as though she’d read his thoughts. “It is by no means on death’s door, so you have no excuse if it dies.”

Draco glared at her. She smiled back. “Watch yourself, Millicent. You may find a rather delectable and unusually tasting fried chicken appearing on your doorstep come morning.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” she replied sweetly. Her smile was terrifyingly sickening.

“You don’t even like birds.”

Millicent shook her head, a distasteful curl of her lip agreeing with Draco’s words as she bent over the bird slightly to examine its leg. She swept her wand over it once more and murmured an inaudible charm that sent warm orange sparks dancing over the frayed feathers. “No, I don’t. They’re loud and obnoxious and they smell funny.”

Draco snorted. He folded his arms, feeling nothing if not petulant and disgruntled. “And cats are so far removed from such a traits?”

“Of course they are. Not to mention they don’t have beaks.” She flashed another cruel smile over her shoulder that nearly caused Draco to flinch. She, like the rest of his closest friends, was more than aware of his reluctance to associate with anything remotely avian. “But you, my friend, have no such favouritism. There is absolutely no reason why you can’t look after your new pet here.”

“It is _not_ going to become a ‘pet’.” Draco shuddered at the very thought, taking a step back from the table. “I don’t even know how to care for a bird.”

Millicent nodded consoling. “I know, Draco. You lack a single nurturing bone in your body. I believe you killed the cactus that Gregory gave you in sixth year, didn’t you?”

“That was because Blaise over-watered it,” Draco grumbled. He’d never really liked it anyway; what kind of a Christmas gift was a cactus? Greg had misinterpreted Draco enthusiasm for the Cactus Brew that Draco had as being a desire to own one of the things. The Brew didn’t even need a cactus! And no matter how Draco tried to explain that it was a _rehydration_ potion, and so named for the plant, Greg didn’t understand.

Millicent snickered. “Well, even so, you have a duty of care –" 

“No, I don’t. It’s a _bird_.”

“Oh, so you _do_ know what it is?”

Draco scowled at her and clamped his lips shut. Her smirk returned with renewed satisfaction. She looked very much like the cat who’d got the cream, suitably enough. Sparing one last glance towards the bird, still nestled in the middle of the table, she turned towards the living room once more. “Alright. I’m done.”

Draco was momentarily left floundering at Millicent’s abruptness. She’d disappeared into the adjoining room before he had the presence of mind to follow her. “Wait! You can’t just leave it here with me.”

Sifting through his Floo powder pot, Millicent raised a falsely befuddled eyebrow at him. “Whyever not?”

“We _just_ discussed the cactus situation.”

“That bares no relevance to the situation, Draco.”

“I can’t look after it!” Yes, his tone was definitely pleading now. Draco was too horrified by what seemed an increasingly likely prospect at that moment to care.

“Yes you can, and you will.”

“But I don’t know what to do with it!”

“Read a book on bird handling, then,” Millicent replied, walking casually towards the fireplace.

“On handling what? I don’t even know what _it is_.” Draco followed behind Millicent, on the verge of forcibly grabbing her shoulder to prevent her from leaving him. From abandoning him. Only general etiquette prevented him from such an uncouth response. That, and she’d likely snap his fingers off. “How am I supposed to know what sort of book to even look for?”

 

Millicent turned another condescending glance his way, her expression illuminated by the green light of the Floo she’d just reopened. “Helplessness doesn’t suit you, Draco. You just seem pathetic rather than inducing assistance.”

“Millicent –“

“I’d guess it was prairie falcon by the look of it. Or maybe a merlin. It’s a bit big for an American kestrel, so I wouldn’t bother looking for books on that.”

Draco blinked at his friend, once more rendered momentarily speechless. Then he frowned accusingly. “Oh, so you don’t know much about birds, hm?”

In the faintly green glow, Draco thought he saw Millicent flush slightly, though what she had to be embarrassed about he had little clue. “I do read _,_ Draco. Perhaps you should try it some time?” And with that she turned and stepped through the fireplace. Draco’s repeated call of “wait” evidently fell on deaf ears. An instant later the fire dwindled into a smouldering orange crackle of embers.

Great. Fantastic. Simply marvellous. Now he was left to care for a bird he’d unwittingly saved – or at least spared – without the faintest knowledge of how to do so and even less inclination. 

He _should_ have just let it die. Everything from sparing the bird a timely end to contacting Millicent that night was a regret. A very sore, very frustrating regret. The cruelty of Millicent, to hang the threat of telling Blaise that Draco was to any degree not as cold-hearted as he wished to appear was distressing. True, Blaise wasn’t any more fooled by Draco’s act than any of the rest of his friends, but he didn’t have the solid evidence to prove that knowledge. Not yet, anyway. In the eighteen years of their friendship, Draco had managed to avoid that, at least. He was hardly going to risk exposing himself now, for Blaise wasn’t the type that would consider their very friendship to be a deterrent from revealing his embarrassing secrets. 

Scowling, he turned back towards the dining room and edged slowly into the doorway, folding his arms. The glare he directed towards the bird in the middle of his table didn’t seem to dissuade it at all; it simply stared straight back at him. As unblinking and unwavering as Draco’s gaze itself. It shouldn’t have seemed even the slightest bit imposing, not with its wing in a bandage and lying more than perching upon the polished wood, but Draco was still left feeling uneasy.

“This is all your fault,” he muttered accusingly. The bird didn’t reply.

Setting his jaw, Draco pointedly ignored his new charge. Giving the table a wide berth, he skirted around to the kitchen and filched the leftover Chinese from the night before from the refrigerator. Draco had never been one to cook for himself and the distinct lack of house elves, left instead to his mother in her ostracised residence, made buying out a necessity. A tap of his wand with a Warming Charm later and the take-away container was steaming ready. 

Without sparing the bird another glance, Draco strode towards his room. He was tired, he was hungry, and he was frustrated. All round, it was not a good combination. He paused in the doorway of his bedroom only long enough to cast another charm over his shoulder, unlatching and opening the kitchen window, before he stepped through and closed the door. Perhaps with more force than was entirely necessary.

With any luck, the bird would be gone by morning.

 ~|=|~

The bird was not gone by morning.

Draco had almost forgotten – or had perhaps repressed – the events of the previous night’s encounter when he hastened from his bedroom to the bathroom the next day. He wasn’t late for work exactly, but he’d made a habit of getting there early and it was a good impression he intended to maintain. Most of his co-workers already saw him as a quiet, unsociable character, reclusive since the war, and though most attempted formal friendliness he never made the effort to offer as much in return. His hard-working demeanour was his one positive characteristic. At least, that was what he intended for his employer and fellow employees to believe. Let that be the boundary of their relationship.

It wasn’t until he was showered, dressed and striding into the kitchen that he was faced with reality. A reality that nested where it had been left in the middle of Draco’s table.

He froze in step, staring at the bird. The bird stared back. It had seated itself properly, now, huddled like nothing so much as a clucking pigeon with a distinct air of entitlement. In the brightness of the daylight streaming through the window, Draco could make out the patterns of its plumage more acutely; with a pale orange chest, its front was patterned in fletching while its dark grey wings speckled with pale trim contrasted in a dusty cloak. A grey cap covered the crown its head above an orange-white cheeks and ruff, broken by faint, whitish eyebrows and stripes drawing away from its beak. By the looks of it – and revisiting his assumption from the previous night – the bird was indeed some sort of hawk or falcon. Though small, it was heavier, sleeker, than its plump pigeon cousin, more formed from lean muscle than plumpness. The beak was definitely not built for pecking at seeds.

Draco would have even called it a handsome creature, except that he hated the thing. Utterly.

“You’re still here,” he said, a little redundantly. The bird stared up at him, silent and unblinking. He was left with the impression that he was being subjected to intense scrutiny, though the unbroken blackness of those eyes spoke nothing but open disdain. Maybe a little wariness, but it was disdainful wariness.

Sighing, Draco pointedly turned back towards the kitchen. He would just ignore it. Millicent had said it would only take a few days. A few days and it would be healed and he could be rid of it.

How many was a few? He wouldn’t have to feed it or anything, would he? Draco flipped open the pantry cupboards and allotted himself a two slices of bread.

What about water? He pulled the butter from the fridge, lathering up a knife and smearing it across the cold bread. He had no time for toast.

Did the bird need a nest or something? Would blankets do? Jam followed the butter. What about warmth? Or cold, for that matter? Did they -?

Suddenly aware of what he was thinking, Draco cut the thought short. No. He would not do this. So long as the bird didn’t die, he had no reason to actively participate in its care.

He glanced over his shoulder and… yes, the bird was still staring at him. It regarded him flatly, as though waiting for something. Or simply loading its continued disdain upon him, Draco couldn’t decide which. What did it want? Why did it just stare? Was it afraid of him, or more inclined to want to bite his nose off?  
  
Was it was thirsty?

Moving almost against his will, Draco pulled a bowl from the cupboard and half-filled it with water. Feeling like nothing if not the village fool, he approached the bird and slid the bowl across the table.

“There. Drink it if you want.” He paused, because the bird hadn’t even glanced towards the bowl. “Or die of thirst if you’d like. I honestly couldn’t care less.”

 _And here I am talking to a bird_. Draco shook his head, hastening back towards the kitchen and his makeshift breakfast. Perhaps Millicent was right. Perhaps he was going insane. Or maybe he’d just been avoiding people for too long.

The thought urged him towards the door. Work. There were more important things than recently acquired and entirely unwanted houseguests. He paused once more in the front doorway to heft his briefcase and glanced once more at the – yes, still staring – bird in the dining room.

“Actually, if you could not die, that would be great. I’d rather Millicent not be put out that I somehow managed to kill you.”

And without waiting for an answer – because the bird wouldn’t answer him, _dammit_ – Draco slammed the door.

~|=|~

He actually managed to forget about the bird for the first half of the day. There was an undertone of tension in the office, something about a questionable operation of which he wasn’t privy to, that was interesting enough to pique his curiosity. Then, when stopping by the local café to pick up lunch, he was assaulted by a flock of pigeons and was reminded all too considerately once more of his house guest. 

Then it was the only thing he could think of for the rest of the day. Which was distressing because one, Draco had work he should be doing, and two, was he truly so hard-pressed for novelty that his current situation was _interesting_ to him? The thought was distressing in itself.

For whatever the reason, for the first time in months he left work at six o’clock that evening. Not five, like most of his colleagues, but still before his current manager, Phnieas Owderman. Owderman gave him a faintly surprised glance as he left which Draco refused to be irked by. If he wanted to leave on time for once, it was his right. His decision. Owderman could wiggle his eyebrows all he wanted. 

Draco by-passed the Floos and Apparation points in favour of taking to the streets. With purpose, he wove through the congestion of Muggles and the odd magical or two in search of the nearest mall. He studiously ignored the sideways glances his robes were affording him from passing Muggles. He had long since decided that he would in no way attempt to adopt their attire merely to fit in. Muggle fashion sense was truly abominable.

Besides, he hadn’t even known he was going amongst Muggles that evening. Otherwise…

The bookshop was nestled between a rowdy café and what looked to be some sort of antique store with windows so cluttered with junk it was actually impossible to see inside. The overhead bell jangled merrily as Draco stepped into the quiet ambiance of the shop.

A smiling, middle-aged woman, the only other occupant of the store, leant over the counter at his entrance. “Good afternoon. Can I help you at all?”

Pausing in step, Draco regarded the woman flatly. He immediately reached the conclusion that, like the majority of shop assistants he’d come across in the past, she smiled too much. Although,at least she wasn’t looking askance at his robes. He had to wonder as to her clientele that she didn’t bat an eyelid; did witches and wizards often frequent Church Street in search of non-magical bookshops?

He slowly shook his head. “No, thank you. I’m merely browsing.” And stepping deliberately past her he made good his claim.

The shop was long and large, a network of column-like shelves, narrowly spaced to an almost claustrophobic degree. Those shelves adorned every wall as well as in between, stretching feet above Draco’s head. And for that tight-packed status, it apparently boasted texts pertaining to every subject imaginable. Draco was gratified to acknowledge his sense in pursuing information on anonymous birds in a Muggle store rather than a Wizarding one; Muggles may be inferior to wizards in every other way, but in terms of sheer, encompassing vastness they were one up. Wizards simply didn’t possess the populace to spread their knowledge into every possible literary genre. Flourish and Blotts only held so much, and that much was significantly dominated by magical texts. Draco doubted he’d seen a book on birds on those shelves in his entire schooling career.

The Muggle bookshop – Page-Turners, he recalled it was called – was entirely different. Not only did he find a long stretch of wall dedicated to non-magical birds, but a whole two shelves of that solely regarded birds of prey. Shaking his head – was bird research a common career pursuit in the Muggle world? – he set to peering at titles and drawing hardbacks from their slots to flick through the pages.

Pages and pages of colourful depictions and meticulous descriptions later and Draco had found his bird. Or at least, he thought it was his bird. Millicent had been right; he was tossing up between two, a merlin and some species of kestrel. Clutching a book featuring both in either hand, he made his way up to the counter.

The smiling woman beamed at him once more. “Studying birds?”

Draco refrained from rolling his eyes with difficulty, just catching the “obviously” on the tip of his tongue before it tumbled from his lips. He simply inclined his head slightly.

“What kind? Birds of prey are fascinating, aren’t that?”

Narrowing his eyes slightly, Draco regarded the shop assistant. Carol, from her nametag. She didn’t exactly look like a bird enthusiast, with her short, greying bob and thin spectacles, the ruffles of her blouse and the adornments of rings on every finger, but then what did he know on the subject? Maybe that was how they all dressed? Nodding his head once more in a curt assent, he replied, “Merlins. Or Prairie falcon, I’m not sure which.”

The shop assistant tilted her own head in a nod of reply. “Ah, yes, they can be a little tricky to tell apart." 

Draco raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued despite himself. “You know of them?” It seemed far too coincidental that the shop assistant would have any clue of birds.

Shrugging, woman beamed once more. “Not really. I just pick up things here and there. Little facts that interest me. I’ve always liked falcons. They’re beautiful when they fly, aren’t they? I grew up on a little acreage that used to get them every now and then. They came for the sparrows.”

“The sparrows?”

“Yes, hunting and the like. Our barn used to be full of house sparrows.”

Draco absorbed the titbit of information silently, nodding. He was hesitant to talk to the woman – Carol – being that she was Muggle and he strove not to talk to _anyone_ as much as possible. Not so much for his dimmed prejudice but simply because they were Muggles. What did one even talk of with Muggles? 

But she evidently knew what she spoke of, at least on the subject of birds. So forcing down the uneasiness that urged Draco to leave the store _at once_ , he propped the two books he’d acquired onto the counter and flipped them open. “I wonder, could you perhaps assist me?”

Carol seemed ecstatic at the prospect, albeit in a motherly, coddling fashion. “Of course! What am I here for?” Leaning forward slightly she peered at the open books. “Merlin and… what’s that, a kestrel? Yes, some species of them are quite similar, aren’t they? Are you looking to tell them apart?” She glanced up at Draco questioningly.

Fighting the urge not to look down his nose at her, he nodded. She smiled – again – at his response before turning back to the books. “Well, from what little I can discern, kestrels tend to be bigger, and they’re seen to hover quite a bit when flying. The merlin,” she tapped a flat finger onto the image of the orange-white and grey bird, “is quite a bit smaller, and has more of a speedy flight, very agile. There’s the tail, too; it’s sort of squarer, has more distinctive stripes and a white tip. Kestrels tail tips are usually darker.”

Lifting his eyes from the page, Draco regarded Carol thoughtfully. “Are you a bird expert?”

Chuckling, Carol shook her head. “No, not in the least. I just like them.” She peered up at him over her spectacles. “So which one is it?”

Regarding the two pictures once more, Draco slowly drifted a hand towards the merlin. “I would assume, given the size…”

“Did you get a close look at the tail?”

“I tried not to,” Draco replied before he could catch himself. Carol gave him a puzzled glance, which he pretended not to see. He closed the two books and proffering the one with the more details on the merlin. “It’ll do.”

Carol was smiling again before Draco left, a merry friendliness that mirrored the jangle of the tinkling bell. Draco shook his head. The odds were uncanny that he’d come across someone who would know what they were talking about, but he wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. He wove his way through the increasingly thinning crowds towards the nearest Apparation point and jumped towards Smittson’s View.

The sun had disappeared below the horizon by the time he stepped through the door into his house. The short trip from the bookshop had been long enough for Draco to begin to wonder once more just what exactly he was doing. Buying a book? Actually familiarising himself with the bird? Why, so that he really could really learn about it and care for it properly?

Shaking his head, Draco pointedly dropped the paper-wrapped parcel of “British Raptors and Other European Birds of Prey” onto the half-moon table beside his door and shrugged out of his outer robe. Then, with deliberate casualness, he strode into the dining room.

And paused.

The bird was gone. A quick glance around the room, at the table, across the kitchen counters, a glance into the living room, showed no feathery cretin with piercing eyes that accused him of being less than a pampering slave. Was it… actually gone?

The tentative flickers of hope had just begun to spark alight when Draco saw the bread crumbs. He’d momentarily disregarded them as the scant mess from his own breakfast that morning. Distraction and haste, not to mention the discomforting study of a glaring bird had left him uncharacteristically careless in his mess. He did not, however, think he had spread said crumbs quite so vastly, nor scattered a thin carpet of them on the floor. 

Tugging open the pantry cupboard doors, Draco shook his head in disbelief. The loaf of bread, of his bread, had been ransacked as though by rats. Or pigeons, as would be the more accurate analogy. More crumbs decorated the shelving.

“How did it even…?” Draco felt a rising incredulity settle beside his upwelling annoyance. Not only had the bird attacked his pantry, but it had somehow opened the cupboard doors, feasted, and then closed them once more. The little bastard! He’d never considered birds to be particularly cunning, but this…

Turning with a scowl from his pantry, Draco dropped his eyes to the crumbs coating the floor. Like the breadcrumb trail from the story of the evil Hansel and Grettle children, it made a slowly fading path towards Draco’s bedroom. And like the kindly old witch whose house had been invaded by said children, Draco followed the evidence.

It was sitting on his bed. Not the pillow – thank Merlin! – but nestled quite comfortably in the midst of his tightly tucked blankets, bandaged wing stark white against his dark quilt. The moment Draco filled the doorway, the snoozing bird snapped its eyes open and trained him with a glare. The presumptuousness set Draco’s teeth on edge, a steadily rising anger that tightened the skin of his face almost painfully and settled a stone of broiling disgruntlement in his gut. His anger was only exacerbated by the sparse flecking of crumbs atop the blankets.

Drawing his wand from his pocket, Draco trained the bird with a hateful glare of his own. “Right. Enough. Out, get out.” He strode into the room, brandishing his wand. “Move, or I’ll blast you out myself.”

The step forwards urged the bird into motion. Uttering a strange, chirping “ki-ki” it stumbled onto its feet and splayed its wings in a haphazard stumble backwards across the bed. That glare remained, but Draco got the distinct and heartening impression he’d unnerved it. It filled him with a savage pleasure.

Until his eyes were drawn once more to the bandaged wing, half-stretched gingerly and flapping at only half the strength of the right as the bird scrambled into motion. And Draco paused.

Millicent.

He was supposed to look after the bird or Millicent would tell Blaise, and then the comfortable, static quietude of Draco’s life would be upturned. Blaise would delight in making sure of that. Even if only for a short time, Draco didn’t want to face such horror. It would be an entirely different disruption to the bird’s intrusion into the quiet containment of his lifestyle. Because then the _world_ would think that Draco had a soft spot for helpless creatures. Which he didn’t.

He couldn’t abide that.

Pausing at the side of his bed, glare still trained on the bird as its scrambles abruptly froze, he lowered his wand. The bird didn’t glance at it once, not sparing a moment of their eye-to-eye staring contest. For contest it was. A battle of wills. Draco’s teeth were clenched so tightly his jaw ached.

Finally he secreted his wand in his pocket once more. “Fine. Fine, whatever. Do what you want. It’s only for a few days. But,” and he pointed a finger at the bird this time. “As soon as that bloody wing is healed, you’re out of here.”

The bird didn’t reply, though in a very deliberate, wary motion slowly lowered itself into a squat once more. Clicking his tongue in frustration, Draco turned from the room, tugging the door behind him once more.

_And I’m talking to the bird once again. I must be going insane._

For surely, it was only insanity that could have urged Draco to instead sleep on the couch that night. Or to spend a solid hour skimming through his newly acquired book and filling his head with trivial knowledge. It was with marked distaste that he fell to sleep that night to the sound of flapping wings and wheeling birds.

And a merlin. He didn’t miss the irony of its name.


	4. Not Quite Hatred

Following their explosive and objectionable beginning, the unwanted room-sharing became somewhat easier. Or perhaps it was simply that, with his ability to demonstrate leniency that Draco had begrudgingly acquired from the wartime, he permitted the intrusion. Permitted, and overlooked the disruption while chanting to himself the words “it’s only for a few days, only a few days”. It became something of a mantra to him.

The bird – the merlin, as he’d discovered – maintained its wariness. It never seemed afraid of Draco exactly, but nevertheless, whenever they happened to be in the same room Draco would unerringly find himself to be the subject of unwavering black eyes. He couldn’t escape them, and not only because the merlin seemed to assume the right to any and every room in the entirety of Draco’s small house.

It spent its day in the living room, perched on the back of the couch with head turned towards the single window when not focused on Draco.

It hobbled around the house like an old man, ungainly, limping gait almost comical had the few times Draco nearly unwittingly stepped upon it not resulted in an ear-splitting, objectionable “ki-ki-kee!” and awkward flapping of displeasure. It took less than two days for Draco to acquire a rather unnerving hesitancy to walk about his own house. To _walk_ … around _his own house_.

It slept in his room, something that Draco had struggled to remain passive about but eventually gave up any further fighting on the subject when he nearly lost his fingers shooing the bird out on the second evening. He wasn’t one for sharing, but after his first night of waking up with a stiff neck he resolutely resisted the urge to avoid his own bed in subsequent instances. Thankfully, the double mattress afforded space enough for the both of them on the blankets. Draco wouldn’t touch the bird to forcibly remove it and didn’t want to risk blasting it off with a spell; he might kill the thing and then where would he be with Millicent?

And it watched him eat in the dining room. Watched, and trained a disdainful stare upon him that was only alleviated when Draco sighed, scowled, and offered it a portion of whatever he was eating. It always gobbled it up within seconds, with a strange chewing motion and bobbing of its head that Draco found horrifyingly fascinating. And not only for the fact that the bird ate pasta, bread and vegetables as often as it did meat. He was sure, now, that smaller birds such as larks and sparrows – Carol had indeed been correct, according to Draco’s book – were the staples of a merlin’s diet.

He knew this because he’d read as much.

Draco had become something of an impromptu expert on merlins over the course of a few days. Quite without his realisation, he’d accumulated a small library of books on bird handling, birds of prey and British raptors. Each afternoon he left work at six o’clock on the dot and made his way to the Page-Turner, spoke minimally to Carol, and purchased another book, usually under her recommendation. 

He didn’t know why he did it. He couldn’t fathom the inclination to learn more about the bird – the merlin – that had invaded his house. He had no idea why he would take the time that he usually threw into work and spend it reading up on bird facts. He didn’t _want_ the bird around, and on Thursday evening, when he realised just how much time he was dedicating to it, he paused in his trip to the Page-Turner and considered.

Why did he do it? Why did he strive to learn so much about the bird? And why on earth did he abandon his workplace for the sole purpose of returning home to the irritating creature any earlier?

The only realistic reasoning he could deduce was that he simply feared the destruction of his house should he leave the bird to its own devices for too long. True, Draco had as yet received no proof to justify this supposition, but it was the only reasonable one he could discern. That, and a genuine fear of Millicent should he happen to mistreat – no, _kill_ – the thing.

By the time the weekend arrived, Draco had a thorough knowledge of the bird that had taken up residence in his home. More than he would ever admit, and it irked and embarrassed him to realise just how much time he’d dedicated to acquiring that knowledge.

He now knew that the merlin was a male. It was too small to be a female and of a more grey than brown colouration that would indicate adolescence.

He knew that they were internationally widespread, and that the merlin he’d unwittingly acquired was of a British subspecies. He’d seen all the pictures.

He had come to the understanding that they didn’t build their own nests but instead integrated those made and abandoned by other birds. Upon learning this, Draco had grumbled long and profusely to the merlin, in increasingly disgruntled tones, about how _he_ hadn’t abandoned his bed and thence it was _not_ available to the bird’s integration. The merlin had actually uttered a clucking chortle in reply; Draco could almost swear it was laughing at him.

He knew now that they were, as Carol had suggested, admired for their agility of flight, engaging in low-level cruising to either flush and chase, to swoop and capture. He knew that, yes, they consumed sparrows and larks, and even ground dwellers such as rats. Had discovered that they’d once been favoured for use in falconry, particularly by ladies, and that males were often simply referred to as ‘jack’ by their handlers.

Jack seemed as good a name as any. Not that Draco would use a name, of course. But any knowledge was good to have.

What he had come to understand from knowledge outside of the books was that merlin’s were smart.

That they could unlock cupboard doors unless charmed shut, and even then sometimes somehow managed.

That the trilling “ki-ki-kee” might have sounded subdued and almost pretty at first but became _very annoying_ after listening to its broken melody for hours on end in the closeted walls of Draco’s little house.

That birds had a lot more downy feathers than seemed entirely necessary, and that such down seemed to shed in an entirely excessive and vexing fashion.

That raptors could stare for a _very_ long time, and seemed to revel in their ability to cow the object of their gaze by capturing them in their unwavering stare.

And, most importantly, for a creature so small they had the ability to take up an enormous amount of space. It was like living with another person, Draco realised. Another person who had absolutely no respect for the personal space of their cohabitants and expressed no remorse for such invasions and the discomfort they caused. It was _always_ Draco that had to move should he wish to be avoid the bird, to escape dwelling in the same room, to avoid tripping over him. More often than not the merlin would simply follow him into the adjacent room, hobbling in his old man strut with wings tucked like arms folded across his back. And staring. Always staring. 

That stare became less accusatory over the days, more simply curious. A curiosity that became accusing when Draco accidentally stepped too close, but curious nonetheless. It became a common feeling, the weight of those eyes upon the back of Draco’s head. No less discomforting, but common. 

Which was why, when Sunday morning arrived to find the merlin perched in the open window in the kitchen, bandage picked to shreds and strewn across the dining table, Draco felt… not unhappy, but at a bit of a loss. Because Millicent had been right; the bird had healed by the end of the week and would be leaving Draco. In peace.

Relief flooded through Draco. Satisfaction. An unspoken blessing to whichever bird-god existed that had ensured the merlin hadn’t died in Draco’s care.

But there was also… yes, a little bit of loss.

It took Draco a solid minute of silent staring at the merlin, as the bird stared straight back at him, for him to register the presence of that emotion. He’d felt it before, come to actively fear the feeling, so he knew what it felt like. It baffled him to no end that he would feel loss for the unwanted guest. The unwanted invader. But as the bird stared at him for a moment, stared and cocked his head before shifting on his feet, spreading its wings and launching through the window with barely a hitch of hesitancy…

Yes. Maybe he did feel a little loss. It wasn’t a bad feeling, exactly, but surprisingly it wasn’t necessarily a positive one either. In barely a week, and for the first time in months, Draco’s mind had been entirely diverted from his work. From dancing around wistful thoughts of his father in Azkaban, of his mother cloistered in her cave-like cottage tucked in the distant reaches of the Reserve. Of how to avoid the world and it’s progression towards ‘embracing one’s former enemies, so long as you didn’t have to crucify them for their actions’ attitude. Fortunately for Draco – or perhaps unfortunately – he was one of the few that were embraced.

He stared out of the kitchen window into the morning sun, across the open grasslands that faded gradually into forestry, until the distant speck of the merlin disappeared entirely into the orange light. And he stared a little longer. Then he drew his wand from his pocket, heated his kettle to boiling, and took a cup of tea to the dining room table to await his arrival of the Sunday Prophet. His empty dining room, in his empty house that was all his and his alone.

And that night, he resolutely avoided looking at the row of bird books stacked neatly in the bookcase in his room.

~|=|~

The merlin came back. Not for a good month, but he did come back. Draco was so surprised that he forgot to be disgruntled by the fact.

He was injured again. A deep gash crossed his chest, slicing through feathers and matting those remaining with streaks of rusty coloured blood. It obviously pained the bird to fly, for his arrival was a tumbling crash across the path before Draco as he turned once more into Wanderer Lane. The merlin took a moment to right himself, his wings fluttering haphazardly, before clambering onto wavering yellow feet and turning towards Draco. And staring with those deep yet colourless eyes.

Draco stared back. And he thought.

He had absolutely no compulsion to pick up the bird. There was no reason for him to take him home, to nurse him until he was healed. There was no Millicent breathing down his neck this time; she’d been struggling with laughter when he’d informed her that his charge was indeed healed and he had not, in fact, killed the bird in the process of his healing. By the end of his cool announcement, she’d finally snapped and dissolved into giggles that would have left the hardiest man horrified to behold.

“I can’t believe you actually did it!” Shaking her head and gasping for breath in between snorts, she’d patted his shoulder fondly. He couldn’t shake those fingers from himself faster. “Oh, Draco, you really do have a heart after all.”

The fact that Draco had been, to a degree, tricked into saving the bird rather than outright killing him hadn’t actually annoyed him as much as he’d thought it would. He was annoyed at Millicent, yes, and made his displeasure known by neglecting to speak to her at all at the bimonthly meet he and his friends still shared at the Lodestone in London. She’d actually been mildly repenting by the end of the evening; she never apologised, of course, but the fact that she’d kept the incident a secret from the rest of their friends was telling enough.

So when Draco saw the merlin once more, his first thought was that he could leave him. That he _should_ leave him. There was absolutely no reason for him to allow the feathered cretin into his house once more, no reason. 

“If you’re coming, you can walk yourself. I’m not carrying you this time.” Draco kept his voice casual, as though he couldn’t care less for the whims of the bird. And striding around him, he’d strode the rest of the way home without checking over his shoulder once. Well, he did _once,_ but only once, sparing half a glance to notice that the merlin was hobbling after him. He looked to be treading gingerly, and quickly fell into the distance behind Draco, but follow he did. Draco refused to feel guilty over making him walk himself, though he did leave his front door open behind him. 

Draco patched the merlin up to the best of his ability, which was very limited indeed concerning animal healing charms. He couldn’t touch the bird – he wouldn’t; there were some things he just wouldn’t do. Then the merlin remained in his house for two days afterwards. Whether it was simply that time had dampened the dislike the merlin had obviously felt for him, or that a return to the familiarity that had healed him had glazed their antagonistic relationship in rose tinting, Draco wasn’t sure. But whether it was his own subdued deterrence or that of the bird, Draco had felt a very distinct shift. 

He found he didn’t quite hate the bird as much as he realistically should have. And the space he consumed in his house, from the perch on the back of every seat at least once throughout his visit to the nest he squatted in on his nightstand or mattress interchangeably, didn’t seem quite so objectionable. He still chose to ignore the merlin at every instance, to resolutely pretend that he wasn’t the focus of his gaze while reading, or working, or compiling a simple snack from the rudimentary contents of his cupboard.

Just like how he ignored the fact that, for those two days the bird dwelled at his house once more, he finished work at six and came home to begrudgingly share a portion of his dinner with him. 

The bird departed again when he was once more capable of flight. And Draco was left staring out of the window after him, hands wrapped around a cup of tea and staring blankly at the point on the morning horizon where the speck that had been the merlin had last been.

By the third time the merlin returned, barely two weeks after the second, Draco had another embarrassing addition to his library: a book on mammalian healing charms that he would deny within an inch of his life had anything at all to do with the merlin. This time, when the bird presented a mangled right foot for Draco’s inspection, he drew his wand and began to cast with the amateur knowledge he’d acquired. The merlin had stared at him throughout, only shifting slightly in unease, and it may have been Draco’s projection but he could swear he saw surprise flicker briefly in that black gaze.

Draco liked to think that. He would never tell anyone – never – but he was quite satisfied that he’d picked up the simple healing charms so easily. Nor would he ever reveal the reason why he had acquired such knowledge.

At his fifth visit, the merlin was uninjured. Draco was left baffled. Each time the bird had happened upon Smittson’s View it had been in search of Draco’s healing hands. Hands that Draco resolutely denied he possessed, both to himself and to the bird at every opportunity. But Jack had not a feather out of place, and when Draco opened his door to a quiet _tap-tap-tap_ , the merlin had simply slipped by him and taken up what had become something of his customary seat on the back of Draco’s dining room chair. The chair, most distressingly, had acquired quite a patterning of grooves from the merlin’s sharp talons. Not that Draco would bother to erase them. After the first few times, with them simply being reborn once more the instant the bird perched upon the polished wood, he’d given up.

Walking slowly back into the dining room, a frown upon his forehead, Draco had folded his arms. “You’re not injured.”

The bird glanced towards him, cocking his head inquisitively.

“Why are you here if you’re not injured.”

The merlin cocked his head back in the other direction. Then, as though answering, he dropped his gaze to the box of half-eaten noodles sitting in the middle of the table.

Draco quickly crossed the room and scooped up his dinner. “No. No, you are not invading my house simply for a meal. I refuse.”

“Ki-ki-kee! Ki-ki-ki-ki-ki…” The bird trailed off into clucking grumbles and clicks, fluffing its wings slightly and releasing a shower of that damnable down. The inquisitiveness had faded from his gaze into a pointed glare instead. Draco stared back, but his skills in intimidation had proved negligible when compared to those of a hungry falcon. 

Suffice to say that the merlin did end up partaking of his meal. He liked the chicken pieces the most; Draco wasn’t left any for himself.

And quite simply, after that, their meetings became regular. Almost every Friday, late in the evening, and sometimes throughout the week, Jack would drop by Draco’s house and simply spend the night. He would eat his food and sleep alongside him in his bed, and usually the next morning he would be gone. It was, Draco considered bemusedly, almost like a casual lover’s relationship. 

Except that it was with a bird. And Jack was _not_ invited.

There were still instances of healing. Jack seemed to injure himself unduly, and often quite severely. On those instances, Draco would find himself with a house guest for several days, and they fell back into their usual stoic yet oddly companionable silences. Draco would never speak to the bird except to mutter begrudgingly or reprimand his behaviour, but…

It was almost comfortable. In a horrifying sort of way.

His little library grew not solely with the texts on law enforcement investigation techniques, the history of the judicial system and contextually relevant sources for his work. And it was not only books on merlins lined the shelving alongside them. Draco had acquired quite an inventory of those pertaining to the healing arts. And if he took efforts to purchase those that mentioned “ _animalia_ ” on the cover… well, it wasn’t like there was anyone to reprimand him.

~|=|~

The last thing Draco saw as he spun on the spot, Apparating home from work on Friday evening, was Harry Potter’s face. The usual expression, of exasperated amusement that Draco had come to realise usually preceded a rolling of his eyes, had followed the similarly usual:

“Well, then. Not tonight but maybe next time. I’ll see you later, Draco.”

Harry just never seemed to get tired of requesting Draco join him for the DMLE employees’ ‘winding down’ night at the Charming club. It was always the same bar, and always at the same time. 

And always Draco declined – he would not be caught dead in the Charming – but without fail, like perfect clockwork, Harry would invite him along the next week. Once during the week, where Draco first indicated his lack of inclination, and once more as they walked out of the Ministry on Friday evening. Draco simply couldn’t understand Harry’s persistence; certainly, they were amicable. But friends? Enough to repeatedly ask with the same answer every time, much to the obvious discomfort of his Weasel friend?

He refused to read more into the friendly invitations than was there. Maybe a few bolts had shaken lose when Harry had been shot by Voldemort in the war. 

Shaking his head, Draco stopped by one of his customary take-away diners in Central London. The smell of rich tomato and Italian herbs clung to him in an aromatic blanket and followed him like a shadow wafting from the little container he left with. Draco was still hesitant to engage too strongly with Muggles, but he’d discovered something of a gold mine in their taste in cuisine. It was remarkably more experimental than Wizarding dining, and though such was often not in their favour there were some instance in which Draco had discovered to be particularly to his liking.

It was almost as convenient as having house elves. Not quite, but almost.

The sun had disappeared by the time Draco stepped over the threshold into his house, the chill of winter just managing to seep through his clothes. A wordless charm nudged all lighting into wakefulness. Familiar silence met his ears, amplifying every shuffle of his shoes, every rustle as he shed his heavy outer cloak, hat and scarf and the crumple of plastic as he handled the bag of _spaghetti con polpette_. The meatball dish had become something of a regular for Draco’s Friday evenings, and he resolutely ignored the fact that this was most likely due to Jack’s fondness for them. Exactly why a typically bird-eating raptor preferred ground beef and pasta was beyond Draco, but he’d hardly cared for the matter when, not two months ago upon his first time trying it, he’d paused briefly to search for a napkin in his sparse cupboards and returned to the table to find most of the meatballs gone.

Jack hadn’t arrived yet, of course. He rarely came any earlier than nine o’clock of an evening unless he was injured. Not that Draco minded particularly. He had always been one to get the majority of his work done at the beginning of the weekend rather than leaving it until the last minute.

Pulling a folded bundle of papers from his briefcase and _accio_ -ing quill and ink from his room, Draco set to annotating the reports before him with a thick patterning of underlines and arrows, idly picking at his dinner throughout.

The tell-tale _tap-tap-tap_ on Draco’s kitchen window shook him from his focus. Glancing over his shoulder, he could just make out the shape of the merlin in the gloom. He regarded him flatly for a moment, twirling his fork in his hand for no reason other than that it would force his guest to wait upon his behest. Finally, he rose slowly to his feet, crossed the room and drew the window open with a squeaking shudder.

“Jack. What an unexpected surprise.”

Jack clucked in reply to Draco’s words and invited himself inside with his hobbling old man gait. He stepped aside for the bird to flutter through the kitchen and take up his usual spot on the back of one of the dining chairs. Draco had just about labelled it as ‘Jack’s Chair’ given the infrequency of other guests to fill it and the increasing number of signature scratches carved into the top.

Falling into the opposite chair, Draco tugged his papers towards himself once more, hefting the quill, while sweeping the mostly empty Italian dish towards Jack. The bird ‘ki-ki’ed and, in another flutter, descended upon the meal with relish. For all his poised quill, Draco couldn’t help but watch Jack as he picked and nuzzled through the meatballs, almost slurping the strips of spaghetti with relish.

“Chew with your mouth closed, if you would.”

The bird paused only for a moment to shoot him a look, a tube of spaghetti dangling from its mouth like a limp worm. He sucked it into a swallow a moment later before promptly proceeding to ignore Draco. For Draco part, he could only sigh, shake his head slightly, and shuffle his reports slightly closer to avoid them becoming stained by tomato sauce.

“You’re early tonight,” Draco commented. A quick _Tempus_ charm had shown it to be only just past eight-thirty. “What, has your girlfriend kicked you out for the night? Did you have no one else to intrude upon?”

Jack paused in his eating once more to shoot Draco a dubious glare, before deliberately turning to present him with his tail. Draco snorted. “Of course, how silly of me. Such a singularly unlikeable parrot would hardly have a girlfriend.”

A snapping of Jack’s beak was the only reply Draco received. Shaking his head at his own wit – and then in faint horror as he realised he was proud of trouncing a bird – he turned back to his reports.

The rest of the evening passed like most of his Fridays did. Draco retired to the living room when he’d grown weary of reports and buried himself in his latest novel. Well, it wasn’t really a novel. Draco fluctuated his reading material between whatever subjects were most relevant to him at present with work – currently he was focused upon permanent transfiguration curses – and healing charms. What little he’d gleaned from his studies in animal healing had sparked his interest.

Well, there were also those on birds of prey, but he would never indicate a tendency towards reading those. Just as he would never admit that he had any particular interest in animals in general. Which was true; he didn’t really. It was simply that birds of prey were relevant to his personal life, in an intrusive and unsought-out way. It was necessity that drove him to become acquainted with such knowledge.

Of course it was.

Besides, Draco would always search whichever books he considered purchasing for direct information on merlins. That was relevant. It would always be better to know of any behaviours Jack was likely to conduct before he did them. Or it would have been, if Jack acted like a normal merlin.

He did not. Not really. And Draco was indecisive as to whether he found such abnormality intriguing or vexing. 

Draco lost himself to the history of merlin falconry, the dry, objective words clogging his mind and painting pictures that overrode that of the misshapen results of transfiguration curses. Jack had followed him into the living room and perched huddled on the back of his couch, feathers faintly fluffed and drifting towards sleepiness. Draco spared him only nonchalant notice that became consideration when he thought about the possibility of training _Jack_ to hunt. He shook off the thought within moments, however; Draco hadn’t even gone so far as to touch the bird besides the brief confrontations when they’d accidentally stumbled into one another. He could hardly fathom a situation where he would readily allow the bird to sit upon his arm. Even with a leather gauntlet, Jack’s claws looked cruelly sharp.

It was nearing midnight when Draco finally decided to retire to bed. Sighing and stretching, he folded his book closed and drifted to the bathroom to ready himself. By the time he’d emerged, Jack had already taken up residency on one half of the mattress. Evidently the nightstand was insufficient in terms of comfort that evening.

Pausing to check that the kitchen window had definitely been left open, Draco climbed into bed beside his feathery companion. The bird had already nestled down to sleep, eyelids shuttered and immobile but for the faint rise and fall of his chest. He didn’t even flinch when Draco nearly upended him to lift the blankets.

Flicking out the lights throughout the house, Draco fell back onto his pillow with a sigh. He was, if not exactly happy, content. Yes, content was the perfect word to describe his situation. He was exactly where he wanted to be with work, had a steady enough relationship with his friends and saw them scarcely enough that they failed to get upon his nerves too greatly, and in terms of lovers… well, they weren’t exactly hard to come by should he wish to seek a night of passion and release to ease any growing tensions. Draco was an attractive young man; he knew this. There was no arrogance in such a claim for it was simply fact. He was attractive, and should he set his eyes upon someone across the room, it was more than likely that he’d end up with them that night. That was just the way he liked it – temporary, casual, and impersonal.

And then he had Jack. Draco could never quite put a finger on just exactly what Jack was to him. He wasn’t a pet; they shared neither the consistency nor the inclination for such a relationship. Besides, Draco highly doubted that Jack would ever submit to such a demeaning title as ‘pet’. 

He wasn’t a stray that Draco had just picked up, but neither was he entirely wild. He wasn’t tame by any stretch, but he wasn’t feral. They had just enough distance between them to lack any intimacy or fondness. It had taken time to reach such a conclusion, but Draco had gradually come to realise one thing: Jack was a perfect companion.

Sort of.

Sure, there might be times that Draco would prefer for the merlin to reply to his snarky remarks, but he often felt from the expression conveyed by the bird’s body language, by the very deliberate stares he turned upon him, that his words were heard to a degree. Or perhaps that was simply wishful thinking.

For whatever reason, far be it from an intrusion anymore, Draco could admit that he was actually quite partial to his evenings with the bird. To himself, at least. And the nights Jack slept silently on the bed beside him… somehow, they managed to seem just a little more restful.


	5. The Torture of Friendship

“Draco! Over here.”

Sighing as nearly a dozen heads turned his way, Draco turned from the doorway of the Lodestone towards the sound of Pansy’s voice. In perhaps any other bar, such a call would not have elicited any particular interest. But the Lodestone was respectable and as upper class as a room of potential drunkards could be.

A tidy establishment, it was relatively small, relatively well lit, and significantly cleaner than some of its grimier cousins – the Leaky Cauldron, for instance. Boasting not quite twenty small tables, it was once a retreat for the less glowingly Light individuals of society; many claimed that the Lodestone was the common room of graduate Slytherins and they wouldn’t be expressly wrong in thinking as much. Nowadays it was less exclusive, yet still the patrons tended towards those less remarkable of the Wizarding worlds repute. It was, in short, still a retreat, yet more for those wishing to escape the kindly sympathy and irksome ‘forgiveness’ of those that felt it their duty to accept their fellows of a decidedly darker past.

On Saturday nights, contrary to popular social conventions, the Lodestone was not at its fullest. The polished, immaculately clean round tables were only half filled at most and the murmur of conversation muted enough that when a somewhat tipsy Pansy Parkinson half rose to her feet and called across the room every single person immediately knew exactly who she spoke to.

If, of course, they were one of the scant minority in Wizarding Britain who lived under a rock and didn’t know who Draco was already.

Weaving his way through the tables, Draco approached his six friends, all crowded casually around a table cluttered with bottles and empty glasses. He was the last to arrive, which was fairly typical, yet as usual Millicent and Theodore had left him a seat directly between them. Blaise was already rivalling Pansy for the fastest descent towards drunkenness, a wide, sloppy smile baring immaculately white teeth, and barely seeming to notice Draco’s arrival. Neither seemed to realise that Greg had already beaten them to the punch. Theodore tipped his head slightly in a nod of greeting before turning his attention back to his muted conversation with Daphne. The quiet girl offered Draco a moment’s glance that would have been a cordial smile of welcome in anyone else before similarly ignoring him.

As soon as Draco folded himself into his seat, Pansy was upon him, leaning over Blaise to jab at him accusingly. “Draco, I told you to get here by nine o’clock tonight. _Nine_ o’clock. What do you call this?”

Raising an eyebrow, Draco regarded Pansy with false confusion. She was right of course; he always tended towards half an hour’s lateness. “I call it nine o’clock, Pansy. Have you perhaps recently lost the ability to tell the time?”

Pansy blinked up at him owlishly for a moment. She glanced across the table towards Millicent. “Is it really?”

Millicent, drawing her attention from where Greg had been only half attending her words, fixed Draco with a pointed stare. “I don’t know, I haven’t checked. Is it really, Draco?”

“It most certainly is.”

“Well, then, if Draco says it is so, then it must be true. You know he would never lie to you, Pansy.”

Evidently, Pansy was further gone than Draco had at first assumed, for she only took a moment of consideration before nodding and replying slowly, “Yes, that is so. Good job, Draco.”

It was a testimony to how drunk she was that Pansy believed that simple lie. Draco’s friend was at times remarkably gullible when she’d had a few. Millicent rolled her eyes and turned back to Greg who appeared not to have noticed her moment of distraction and still frowned into the cup cradled in his lap.

The meeting of the ex-Slytherin cohort had been a tradition of sorts for years. Initiated sometime shortly after Draco had finally been released from the intense scrutiny of Wizarding parole officers, their little meets had begun with tentatively scouts into a number of different British pubs around London and stopped after sampling only a few when they had unanimously agreed that nowhere could possibly quite meet the standard of the Lodestone. Since, their bimonthly meetings had acquired them something of a reserved table at the back of the pub, one that was quickly vacated when the first of them walked through the doors of a Saturday night.

Not that Draco would know. He was always fashionably late. He was a reputation to uphold, as Blaise so frequently and unnecessarily reminded him.

Such nights were almost boring with their consistency, and yet Draco knew with the certainty that one knew their own name that he would never be so comfortable with another group of acquaintances as he was with his old school friends. They mocked one another, teased and degraded, but it was all in good humour. And though each would rarely claim it in so many words, it was a friendship. They supported one another in ways that their distant, aloof families and the painfully cordial work colleagues couldn’t. And Merlin save any passer-by that sought to offer a maliciously provocative comment; for mock one another though they did, Draco knew from experience that should anyone else – _anyone_ – attempt to respond in kind, said intruder would quickly find himself crushed beneath the full and cooperative weight of their party.

It actually heartened Draco to recognise the reality of the situation. Not that he would ever tell anyone. So long as there were no listening ears, his ‘friends’ would take savage delight in teasing him and snickering over the sappiness of their resident cold-hearted Malfoy.

As it was, said Malfoy slipped easily into the midst of their easy conversation. Theodore and Daphne, as was usual, were huddled at one end of the table and speaking in low and serious tones about something that Draco was mostly certain was definitely not serious at all. Daphne, for all her sombre expression, was a ruthless miser of secrets and dished it out to her sole correspondent in Theodore. Who promptly bartered such information with the best of them.

Pansy just so happened to be one of the best of them. It was not uncommon for an entire Saturday night to be consumed with her attempts to pry the latest juicy secret about who eloped with whom, whose child the teen Witch Weekly star’s truly was, which family was doomed to financial disaster after a particularly foolish dabble in shares that were far more convoluted than they’d anticipated. Daphne rarely obliged, mostly because the nature of her secrets generally lay in a less superficial area. They carried a somewhat… darker tone. Death, disownment and destruction to name a few.

Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately given Draco’s disinclination for bearing witness to such scenarios, Pansy was rather distracted by Blaise that evening. And Blaise too appeared to be somewhat distracted by Pansy. After watching them for barely a half a minute Draco deduced that his two friends were once again in a single-and-flirtatious mood and would likely be temporarily sharing one another’s beds soon in no time at all. Shaking his head, he snorted.

“Something funny, Draco?”

Draco glanced towards Millicent, who had detached herself once more from Greg’s brooding companionship to affix him with a pointedly raised eyebrow. “Not at all. What would make you think that?”

“Oh, nothing in particular, save for a rather disagreeable sound that keeps erupting from your nostrils. Do you have a cold?”

“I have a handkerchief here if you want it, Draco,” Greg mumbled, shifting in his seat the fumble through his breast pockets.

Draco held up a hand. “Very kind of you, Gregory, but it is unnecessary. Millie simply lacks the perception skills to identify my scepticism.”

“Don’t call me ‘Millie’,” Millicent said with a sickly sweet smile. She could have scared baby goblins with a simple bearing of her teeth.

“But I do believe it quite suits you.”

“Almost as well as ‘Dray’ suits you?”

“We’re not having this conversation again. You’ll recall that I flamed you to ashes in your last attempt. Thank you, Greg,” Draco nodded towards his quiet friend as the hulking young man finally extricated a crumpled handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to him. Unnecessary as it was, at least Greg tried. And at least it looked like it hadn’t been used.

Millicent tapped a finger on the side of her wine glass. “I think you’ll find that I’ve become quite practiced in the art of disintegrating pompous arseholes these days, Draco. Certainly more than I was at – what was it? – twelve years old?”

“I look forward to witnessing it someday. However, for your own sake, I’d recommend you attempt as much on a less challenging opponent before trying me.”

Millicent sneered. “You have a rather inflated sense of your own competency.”

“It’s entirely warranted, I can assure you.”

“Care to test it out?”

“We’ve just been through this. I don’t want to embarrass you.” Sighing like a long-suffering older brother stemming the whining pleas of his younger sibling, Draco rose to his feet. “I’m getting a drink.”

“Oh, good. You can get me a top up.” Millicent held her glass of pale pink wine aloft. “I’ll have another cherry Moscato.”

“I’m not getting you anything.”

“Don’t be an arse, Draco.”

“I’m hardly being an ‘arse’ but simply saving you from the embarrassment of consuming another of what would have to be the pansiest wines to grace the Lodestone’s cellars.”

“What was that? Were you talking about me, Draco?”

“It’s nothing, Pansy,” Draco replied to his friend as he edged around the table. “I’m merely sparing Millicent from another social blunder.”

Pansy nodded knowingly. “Yes, she is rather prone to them, isn’t she?”

“I hate you, Pansy."

“You know you love me.” Pansy flashed a smile at Millicent before turning her attention back to Draco. “Could you get me another ninety-four Muscat? Geoffrey’s keeping me the bottle. Did you want anything?” She asked, turning towards Daphne and Theodore.

“I’ll just have a firewhisky, and Daphne’s on Tespits tonight." 

“Oh, are you portkeying somewhere tomorrow, Daphne? I heard international trips have a zero-blood alcohol as of June, don’t they? Are you going back to Sweden or somewhere else this time?”

“I’ll have a Kelpie beer,” Blaise chimed in, holding aloft his nearly empty bottle.

Draco huffed as his friends all turned their attention back to their conversations. “I’m fairly certain I said I’m not getting anything for anyone else. Did _no one_ hear me say this?”

“I heard you,” Greg grumbled, blinking up at him with watery eyes.

“Thank you, Gregory, that’s very gratifying.” Millicent smirked as he fought and failed to restrain a scowl. Rolling his eyes he turned towards the bar.

When he returned, it was to find Blaise at the centre of attention. Which was exactly where Blaise truly liked it, all things told. The levitating beverages he’d begrudgingly purchased found their drinkers and Draco slipped back into the chair beside Millicent. He directly handed the Butterbeer he’d snagged for Greg to said friend; sticking to non-alcoholic drinks for the rest of the night would probably be a good thing given his current state. Draco wouldn’t be surprised if at least a quarter of the empty glasses on the table belonged to him. For such a big man, Greg had a relatively low tolerance.

“It was just sort of unexpected. A throwaway ceremony. There were barely more than ten people there.”

“What’s this?” Draco asked, interrupting Blaise before Pansy could. The pug-nosed girl looked on the verge of spitting indignantly about something or other, an expression that did little to favour the unfortunate uptilt of her facial features. Draco had always silently considered she looked like her face was permanently pressed firmly and inquisitively up against a glass window. A rather apt analogy if he did say so himself, given her manic and often intrusive curiosity about _everything_.

Blaise glanced towards him, uttering a long-suffering sigh. “Mother remarried.”

“To that Danish bloke?”

“Who, Frans?” Blaise waved of the suggestion derisively. “Of course not. Mother hasn’t been with him for a good two months now.”

“Yeah, she’s had a solid dozen lovers since,” Millicent muttered into her wine glass. If Blaise heard, he ignored her.

“When was this?” Theodore asked. 

“Not quite a week ago. It was pretty last minute; we were only able to book Periwinkle Church because of Mother’s connections –“ 

“Dear Merlin, not Periwinkle.” Draco shook his head in commiseration. “Does she think no other churches exist? You say connections, Blaise; I claim she holds a loyalty voucher.”

Blaise frowned, pursing his lips. “She did have that one wedding up near Edinburgh with Carlos three years ago –" 

“I can’t _believe_ you didn’t invite me this time!” Pansy whined. Her pout was so pronounced it appeared as though her lips had physically dislodged from her mouth. “You said you would ask me along as your partner when it happened if I wanted.” 

“Yes, well, after last time –“

“Was that with Balthazar or Oden?”

“Shut up, Millicent. Last time, all of you,” and Blaise swept a pointed finger around their circle, “said you’d hex me if I dragged you along to another.”

“Yes, but we would hex you lovingly, Blaise.”

“Why does that not reassure me, Theodore?”

“Probably because it’s Daphne’s words, not mine.” No one disputed the claim. Daphne was the silent but deadly kind, in just about every way conceivable.

“So you’re a wonderfully, sickeningly happy family again?” Millicent asked, lip curling distastefully into her wine. “Should I offer my congratulations or commiserations?”

“Does it really matter? It’s not like it will last long,” Draco murmured, and Millicent snorted a snicker.

Blaise sighed, ignoring Draco’s words. Or maybe he just didn’t hear them; he was prone towards auditory failures when he’d had a few, though his own tolerance was markedly higher than Pansy’s and Greg’s. Draco had to pause at the thought; he really was too familiar with his friends’ habits. “Probably a bit of both. I mean, I like Frans, but Mother is always a little sickening in the honeymoon period." 

“She still has a honeymoon period?” Theodore asked. He sounded genuinely surprised.

“Of course she does,” Pansy scowled at him, as though it was a personal insult to suggest that anyone wouldn’t be glowing in the aftermath of their wedding. Even if it was their fourteenth. “She’s flying on cloud nine for a solid month these days, isn’t she Blaise?”

The sappy grin Blaise turned upon Pansy was sickening to behold. Draco had to take a fortifying sip of his whisky to retain the contents of his stomach. “That she is. It’s not particularly nice to live with, though.” Another sigh. “I wish I could simply have normal parents.”

“You and everyone else,” Millicent muttered. “You should be happy you’ve only got one.”

“Come on, Millicent, your mother isn’t that bad.” Pansy reached across the table to offer a gently commiserating pat on the shoulder that Millicent glared at as though it were a misshapen spider.

“Yes, she’s only hexed your father into hospital once in the past year, hasn’t she?” Draco asked innocently. The glare shifted to him instead.

“Well, we can’t all have perfect parents like yours, Draco.”

“Oh yes, my parents are so perfect. One in Azkaban and another a self-induced hermit.”

“I wish my parents were in Azkaban sometimes,” Pansy sighed wistfully. Theodore and Daphne nodded their heads in vehement agreement.

“I believe ‘hermit’ is a bit of a strong word,” Blaise contended. He was obviously holding back a smirk. Draco crushed his foot beneath the table, eliciting a yelp.

“How is your mother, Draco?”

Gregory, evidently drawn from his listless stupor by talk of Narcissa Malfoy, peered at Draco with more attentiveness than would have been thought possible but a minute before. He’d always had a bit of a hero-worshipping adoration for Draco’s mother, and that adoration hadn’t faded even an ounce in the past six years, reclusive though Narcissa had become.

Draco shrugged. “She’s fine. I haven’t seen her in about a month, but last I checked she was building a labyrinth around the house. It will be, and I quote, ‘a maze without end’. I assume she’s attempting to lose any potential door-to-door salesmen between the hedges before they can reach her front porch.”

“What kind of a salesmen walks all the way into the back end of the Retreat?” Blaise asked wonderingly.

“A very desperate one,” Draco replied dryly. “And one without hope of ever resurfacing.”

“So it’s been a while,” Gregory persisted. He’d actually momentarily settled his bottle back onto the table-top. “How is she?”

“Gregory, you’ve already asked that. You’re starting to sound like a broken record,” Millicent said with a poke to his shoulder.

“She’s fine, Greg.” Draco repeated. Short, simple words were better for his friend, and not just when drunken.

“Oh. Good.” And Greg went right back to peering quizzically into the yellow-brown liquid swirling in his bottle.

“Will you be spending Christmas with her do you think?” Pansy asked.

“Why, are you looking to escape your mother’s eggnog and join us again?”

“Of course. Why else would I ask?”

“I’m up for that,” Blaise input. Because of course he would be. Draco knew the paces; when Blaise was attempting his none-too-subtle pursuit of Pansy – it must have happened at least five times already – he followed her around like a loyal hound. Pansy actually seemed to like it, oddly enough. 

“And here I thought you’d perhaps simply wish to experience the continued pleasure of my company,” Draco sighed.

“Don’t be so blissfully ignorant, Draco,” Millicent said with a hint of barely suppressed amusement. “Christmas is all about spending time away from those you can stand the least. It’s absolutely nothing to do with enjoying oneself."

“And I’m sure you’d know that? Where, pray tell, will you be?”

“With my cats of course.” She took another sip of her wine. “I can stand there company by far the easiest.”

“And not mine?”

“You’re neutral territory, Draco. I wouldn’t pass up the offer of joining you in favour of, say, Pansy’s family.”

“Hey! Pansy exclaimed, sloshing the contents of her glass across the table. Millicent glared at it distastefully and Greg adopted an expression of stunned surprise as his attention shifted to the pooling burgundy liquid. “Father isn’t _that_ bad." 

“True, but your mother is insufferable.”

“Anyway,” Draco broke in before their argument could deteriorate further. “If you should so desire, you are more than welcome to join me. I’m sure accompanying me would be a far better excuse to give your parents that cloistering yourself from society with your cats. But,” he turned his attention fully onto Millicent to the exclusion of the rest of his friends. “You have to accompany me next Saturday to Our Saint’s Hall." 

Millicent narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously. “Why? What’s happening at Our Saint’s Hall?”

“Really, Millicent? Do you not read the news at all?” Theodore sighed in mock regret while Daphne shook her head and rolled her eyes.

“Oooooh, I’ll come!” Pansy sang enthusiastically.

Millicent continued her suspicious glare for a moment before understanding cleared them. “Oh. That. No, no way. I think I’ll take my chances with my parents, thank you.”

“Bitch,” Draco muttered. Millicent smiled. He turned to Daphne instead. “How about you, Daphne? Will you be my most esteemed accompaniment?”

Daphne’s lips quirked to the side, a single eyebrow arching in a very telling and very Greengrass expression of “no way in hell”. Her sister wore it exactly the same way. Draco sighed and turned to Theodore instead. “Theodore?”

Before Theodore had a chance to answer, Pansy overrode him. “Hey! How come you asked Theodore before me? I’m the girl.”

Draco spared her a moment’s glance. “I fail to see the relevance of your gender to the situation.”

“Whatever happened to good old-fashioned chivalry?”

“It died. Brutally,” Millicent informed her. At a casual clearing of Blaise’s throat she added, “Except for in the Zabini line, of course.”

“I’m not particularly inclined to attending Ministry Christmas parties,” Theodore finally replied to Draco’s question. “Too many arrogant, obnoxious do-gooders for my taste.”

“Too much for mine too, is more the problem,” Draco agreed with a heavy sigh.

“But do-gooders are such fun to mess with,” Pansy said. She leant across the table eagerly. Her eyes were lit with excitement at the prospect of an entire hall full of potential victims becoming increasingly intoxicated as the night wore on beneath the ardour of Christmas spirit. “And so easy to extract delicious, tantalising, delightful –" 

“You get off on this, don’t you?” Millicent muttered, her face twisted in disgusted horror. Blaise hummed approvingly.

Ignoring Pansy’s longing gaze, Blaise’s fixated staring and Millicent’s muttering, Draco turned his almost pleading attention back towards Theodore and Daphne. “You _can’t_ leave me to her.”

“Don’t worry,” Theodore reassured him. “I’m certain Blaise will want to come along too.”

“That doesn’t exactly ease my thoughts on the matter. Why do you so persist in declining?”

Theodore shrugged. “I’m going with Daphne to meet up with her new girlfriend. She’s coming to London next Friday, so we’re showing her the new place down on Griffin Street.”

“You mean that Hawk place?” Pansy piped in, her attention shifting fluidly.

“Falcon’s Nest, Pansy, not Hawk,” Theodore corrected.

“Same thing,” Pansy replied with a dismissive wave of her hand.

“Hardly,” Millicent interrupted before Theodore could continue. “I believe there’s quite a difference between hawks and falcons. Draco?”

“Falcons are generally smaller, faster and have proportionately longer wings,” Draco supplied mechanically before he realised he was speaking. He speared Millicent with a glare that she only replied with by baring her teeth in her devilish smile. Thankfully, no one seemed to notice Draco’s apparent knowledge of bird lore.

“Isn’t that a gay bar? You two went to a gay bar together?” Pansy asked, leaning across the table towards Theodore and Daphne now rather than Draco. He felt a little relieved by the fact; Pansy was always a little overwhelming.

“Funny that, seeing as Daphne has a _girl_ friend,” Draco informed his friend. Just about everyone at the table rolled their eyes.

Pansy sighed. “How did I manage to surround myself with predominantly homosexual friends?” She wondered aloud.

“It’s a Slytherin trait,” Theodore quipped.

“And hardly ‘surround’,” Blaise added. “What am I, to so escape your notice?”

“I doubt ‘escape her notice’ is exactly what you share with Pansy, Blaise,” Millicent snickered. “And what part of me exactly is homosexual?”

“Yes, but you don’t like _any_ one, Millicent,” Pansy huffed. “Draco’s gay, Daphne’s gay, Theodore is… I don’t even know –“

“I’m impartial,” Theodore informed her.

“Whatever. Greg hasn’t had a girlfriend since that disaster with that tart Yvonne, and I’m pretty sure he’s been turned off relationships for life. It’s only me!”

“ _And me_ ,” Blaise emphasised. Not that it appeared to do much good. Pansy had already settled into her moping.

“I have _no_ one to commiserate with over the woes of finding a man –“

“Except Draco,” Millicent offered.

“- and it makes me feel so _woebegone_.”

Regarding his friend in her apparently disconsolate state, Draco fought the urge to reach across the table and flick her in the middle of her wrinkling forehead. Brushing aside the thought, he turned instead to Theodore and Daphne. “So, a new girlfriend, Daphne. Is she the translator you mentioned from the Swedish Ministry?”  
  
Daphne nodded, but it was, naturally, Theodore who replied for her. “They decided to tentatively try last time she went over, and correspondence seems to work well for them. I’m personally not particularly fond of Floo messaging in terms of intimacy, but for you it seems to work?” He half-turned towards Daphne for confirmation and she shrugged then nodded.

“I’m sure you’ll be very happy together,” Draco offered, sipping his whisky. “Do provide a review of the Falcon’s Nest for me, would you?”

Theodore nodded obligingly, interpreting the thinly veiled request beneath his words. “Are you scouting again, Draco?”

“Draco’s always scouting,” Blaise grinned, winking at Draco.

Draco ignored him. “Merely looking for another suitable establishment to spend a solitary evening. Solitarily.” He ignored Millicent’s snicker into Greg’s shoulder. The big man hardly seemed to notice.

Theodore, to his credit, similarly ignored the snide interruptions of their friends. “As it happens, I’ve actually been there before.”

“Really? And your verdict?”

Theodore shrugged. “Better than the Leaky Cauldron by far. Not quite the Royal, but it’s not far off. I do believe the bar tenders are actually acquainted with their wares, and it appears the cleaners do know how to work a _Scourgify_." 

“That’s always a benefit to the establishment,” Draco agreed. He’d been in his fair share of pubs, ‘scouting’ as Theodore put it, and knew there was a vast difference between those with a general sense for hygiene and those without. “And the clients?” 

“Are you asking for a rundown on the available meat, Draco?” Blaise’s grin widened further, which Draco once again ignored. Pansy rolled her eyes and set about attempting – and failing – to harvest details of Daphne’s new relationship from the silent young woman.

Theodore adopted a thoughtful expression. “Well… certainly better than the Leaky Cauldron –“

“That’s not exactly difficult to achieve.”

“- and likely better that the Spring Changeling –" 

“Less difficult, but still nothing particularly exceptional.” 

“- not to mention they charge extra with increasing alcoholic purchases, so there are certainly less wayward drunks filling the booths.”

Draco’s eyebrows rose incredulously at word of the new, upstanding trend that was making its rounds through Wizarding clubs, but it was Pansy who spoke first. “ _Really?_ How interesting. So they’re striving for clean and minimalistic? An atmosphere of camaraderie and conversation rather than intoxication?” She hummed thoughtfully. “Do they have frequent additional entertainment?” 

“They do. Bands, speakers –“

“Cultists?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Pansy. Motivational speakers.”

Pansy pulled a face. “How boring. This is sounding less like a club and more like a self-help rec centre.” Blaise nodded in emphatic agreement and though Draco didn’t openly express the same he couldn’t help but feel mutually. 

Theodore shot Pansy a cold glare. “How you ever manage to publish a single article with the intensity of your assuming bias will forever confound me.“

“People love bias, Theodore. That’s what they read Witch Weekly for.”

“An ounce of truth may be appreciated,” Theodore continued. “Or at least the foundations of such.”

“How _boring_ ,” Pansy repeated, dropping her chin onto a hand and sipping at the last of her wine. She held out the glass to her side a second later and Blaise jumped to his feet, accepting it and hastening to the bar. Millicent called her own orders after his scurrying retreat.

Theodore, for his part, ignored Pansy entirely, turning his attention to Draco. “Personally, Draco, I believe you’d find it quite to your liking.”

“Is that so?” Draco took a sip of his own drink, arching an eyebrow over the rim of his glass. “And why is that?”

“Only that I have seen some somewhat favourable patrons in attendance.”

Pansy hummed appreciatively, leaning once more towards Theodore. She ignored the pointed glare Daphne spared her; Draco didn’t quite understand where Daphne’s discontent arose from anyway so could hardly blame Pansy for disregarding it. “I smell a rumour on the horizon,” she purred.

“Dear Merlin, Pansy’s got her teeth sunk in,” Millicent sighed, elbowing Greg as though he were partaking of the conversation with avid attentiveness. Greg started distractedly with a ‘hmm?’ “Nothing, Gregory, go back to your Butterbeer.” Greg obliged.

Fixing Draco with a meaningful stare, Theodore gestured towards him with his own glass. “I happened to witness the choice arrival of one youngest Weasel.”

Draco’s felt his eyebrows creep higher still. “What, Ginevra Weasley?”

“No, fool, the boy.”

That drew a snort from Millicent that Draco echoed in a less explosive fashion. Pansy was literally rubbing her hands together in evident glee. “Is that so? Do we have potential infidelity of the upstanding Elite Auror on the cards?”

“Hardly,” Theodore replied with a small snort of his own. “I believe Weasley is about as faithful to his Muggleborn bride as is physically possible." 

“Perhaps he’s harbouring some repressed homosexual tendencies, then? It is a gay bar after all.”

“You’re really caught up on the whole ‘gay’ thing tonight, aren’t you, Pansy?” Millicent frowned, shaking her head and rolling her eyes in exasperation.

“I doubt it’s that either,” Theodore continued. “Weasley wasn’t exactly fishing for kappas, if you understand my meaning.” He smirked suggestively, only to receive an elbow to the ribs by a scowling Daphne. He had the presence of mind to look contrite; Draco thought him wise to appear as such given that had he avoided such contrition Daphne would likely have had his balls on a platter before the night was out. Entirely without breathing a word, at that.

Settling thoughtfully back in his seat with a slight frown, Draco folded his arms across his chest. “You do realise, Theodore, that there are few people in the world I’m less interested in than Weasley. Why you thought such information would be of concern to me is beyond my ken.”

“That is because,” Theodore leant forward in his seat, uncharacteristically conspiratorial. Draco felt his lip curl. “It isn’t Weasley that is of interest but his companion.”

“Leave us not in suspense, Theodore. Who, oh, who was with him?” Millicent asked in a dull monotone, but there was a definite spark of interest in her sidelong glance.

Theodore smirked. “Who else? Potter, of course." 

There was silence at the table for a moment. Then, like a lioness crouching on her haunches, Pansy sunk her elbows into the table and leant even further towards Theodore. Her lips stretched in a predatory smile. “Is that so?”

Keeping a damper on the rising flood of… something in his gut, Draco very deliberately reached for his glass and took a sip. Only to find it empty. He sighed heavily and turned nonchalant, hooded eyes towards Theodore. “Is this supposed to be interesting? Why do you believe such a tale is of any note at all?" 

“Only because it’s _Potter_ ,” Pansy emphasised, as though that answered the question.

“Yes, thank you, I did hear that.”

“ _Potter_. In a _gay_ bar.”

“Again, get over your ‘gay bar’ fixation, Pansy.” Millicent clicked her tongue with undue savageness.

“What, it’s interesting!” Pansy cast a glance around the table, almost imploringly. “He broke up with the Weaslette what, a year ago now? And reputedly no partners since? And those two just _happen_ to have remained wonderfully close friends, as though there were no ill intentions in the break up? As though it was for an unavoidable and purely innocent reason?” She paused expectantly. “Does no one else think this is suspicious? A very clear indicator?”

“Pansy, if this ends up in Witch Weekly, I will smother you in your sleep,” Draco said casually.

“Are those protective inclinations I detect, Draco? Does it distress you that I might offend Potter?” Pansy smiled her lioness grin once more.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

But Pansy had started it, and like the heinous fiends they were, Draco’s friends leapt at the chance to tease him. Theodore adopted a smirk almost identical to Pansy’s. “You mean to tell me that you wouldn’t be the slightest bit intrigued should Potter announce a profound discovery of his sexuality." 

“I most certainly would not. Harry and I have a purely professional relationship.”

“Not your ‘more-than-friends-but-not-as-much-as-I’d-like-it-to-be’ status, then?” Pansy asked. A glance she shared with a deceptively blank-faced Daphne was a clear indication of where she’d gotten such suspicion. Daphne was oddly perceptive with such things.

Draco glared at her. “I have no inclination towards furthering any sort of relationship with Harry.”

Millicent chuckled dangerously. “Oh, so your tendency to gravitate towards horrendously messy black hair and spectacles is just a coincidence, is it?”

“I am not partial to the bespectacled in the slightest,” Draco scowled, pointedly ignoring the other half of the comment. Millicent’s continued chuckle suggested she saw right through him. “It is foolish to continue to outfit oneself in eyewear when there are perfectly acceptable magical procedures for fixing optical issues." 

“Experimental procedures.”

“You’re not helping my argument, Theodore.”

“I wasn’t trying to.”

Blaise chose that moment to return, another bottle of Kelpie beer and a glass of blood red wine in each hand. He eased himself with natural grace back into his seat and relinquished the wine glass to Pansy’s greedy fingers. “What are we talking about?”

“Draco’s obvious and continued obsession with Potter,” Pansy gurgled around a sip. Millicent and Daphne both assumed expressions of disgust.

“Ah, always a much loved topic.” 

“I will hex you all,” Draco warned, skimming a narrow-eyed glance around his circle of friends. With the exception of Greg – who had actually raised his eyes curiously from his bottle in that moment – they were all fighting back snickers with little success. Even Daphne trembled slightly in silent mirth.

The biggest problem was that, though he may deny it, Draco’s friends were entirely correct. Draco didn’t know exactly when he had become infatuated with Harry Potter. He knew when he realised it, and it was in the exact moment that he fully realised he had been – and would continue to – address Harry on a first name basis.

It was a very, _very_ serious problem. And was likely the main reason that, while Harry appeared to have developed something of a marked comfort in their not-quite-friendship, Draco still struggled to take that extra step. Not that he would ever admit to being anyone’s ‘friend’, exactly, but… how could he? Allowing himself to acknowledge a semblance of greater fondness for Harry would only catalyse an increasingly threatening downward spiral.

Draco couldn’t see the bottom of that spiral, didn’t know what awaited him in those murky depths, but it couldn’t be good. Not for Harry and certainly not for Draco. A sexual relationship? Or even better than that, a romantic one? Draco was hardly a romantic person, had barely dated for more than a month and such dating could only loosely be describes as such, but if it was Harry…

No. No, it wouldn’t happen. Draco had become very accomplished at shutting down the train of such thoughts. Very accomplished indeed.

There was every time Harry spared him a moment for sarcastic banter, to joke companionably.

Every time Draco caught a glimpse of his half smile that he’d somehow grown so fond of.

Every time he ran his hand through his hair and caused it to be just that little bit messier, something that had vexed Draco to no end in their schooling years but he now found absolutely engrossing.

Every time Harry was in the room. Or looked at Draco. Or breathed near him.

Infatuated didn’t really begin to cover it. Draco was in deep, and he very studiously did not allow himself to admit to the fact. It would never happen, and not because they were at different ends of the societal spectrum, despite what Harry might intend. Harry was straight.

Or he was supposed to be. Damn Theodore for putting the thought into his head.

Theodore had continued on something of a spellbinding retelling of exactly what he had seen at the Falcon’s Nest. Pansy and Blaise, even Daphne and Millicent, were captivated by his words, by his almost derogatory speculations as to “what Potter could possibly be doing there?” that Draco found instantly infuriating. Theodore had always seemed like an amicable fellow, but in that moment, when he once more repeated the words “saint like and goodly Potter might not be so predictable after all”, Draco was tempted to punch him. Right in the face. Hard.

Rising to his feet, Draco edged around the table once more to make for the bar. He shuttered his ears to Theodore’s words and schooled his expression into careful passivity. As he rounded the table, however, a hand grabbed at his elbow. He jolted in step and looked down with a glare.

Had it been anyone but Greg, Draco would likely have hexed their arm off. As it was, he couldn’t find it in him to even shrug off the bleary-eyed attention of the dopey man. Greg blinked up at him slowly for a moment before leaning forwards as though to relay a secret. Despite himself and his still simmering vexation, Draco found himself unconsciously straining his ears to hear.

“You know, I kind of like Potter.” Greg blinked in a rapid stutter, flinching slightly as though slightly astounded by his own words. He steadied himself a moment later, however. “He’s nice.”

And that was it. That was the extent of Greg’s contribution. Nodding in satisfaction, he turned once more to his half-finished bottle of Butterbeer. Their exchange and his recent resurfacing from the pool of drunkenness went completely unnoticed by the rest of their peers. Draco stared down at him in surprise for a moment at the unexpectedness of the statement before turning once more towards the bar.

“Oh, Draco, get me another, would you? Blaise was an idiot and forgot.”

Millicent’s words went unacknowledged; Draco didn’t even pause in step as he made his way towards Geoffrey as the barman laughed at a comment from another client. He wouldn’t get her one – Millicent was in a bitch of a mood that night; she didn’t deserve it – but he’d ensure he spared a moment to get a cleansing glass of water for Greg.

At least someone else at the table wasn’t a complete and utter idiot.


	6. Stepping the Vexing Paces

Our Saint’s Hall was a heritage site. Supposedly.

Personally, Draco saw no reason to consider it such. There was nothing particularly exceptional about the estate that sat on the outskirts of London. Or at least, nothing more exceptional than many of the other impressive old blood residences he’d been in. Less so, in fact, than that of the Greengrass Manor, which bordered on palace proportions and was at all times only minimally occupied.

Our Saint’s Hall hadn’t been lived in for at least a century, despite the fact that the Rivels – the owners of the estate – were still very much alive and prominent. It had instead become something of a venue for parties of the wealthy, ministry dos, and international meet and greets. It was relatively impressive, Draco could admit, but only relatively. And it certainly held no greater historical significance other than a history of such gathering beneath its roof.

Stepping through the foyer past yawning double doors and pristinely groomed ushers nearly invisible in their dark robes and unobtrusive manner, Draco led Pansy, Blaise and Greg after the trickle of ministry employees. The foyer itself was modest for such a sizeable manor, with the overhead chandelier devoid of particularly extravagant adornment and barely a twinkle of glass or jewel in sight. A single, wide staircase, steps edged in dulled bronze, led onto a darkened overhang that disappeared into the further darkness of the upper stories. Polished, white marble floors were draped in a wide, centrally spaced woven rug of vivid red that served as a directional pathway of sorts for those ushered through the front doors. Draco could already hear the chatter of conversation, the muted bursts of laughter, that rippled from the doors of the ballroom stationed beyond those doors

The urge to sigh was supressed only by Draco’s knowledge that everyone – all ten people or so – in the foyer would hear him. He cast a glance over his shoulder at his friends, pausing in step before entering the ballroom. “Parkinson, Zabini, if you please I would cordially request you keep all displays of sadism and predation to a minimum this evening.”

Pansy, outfitted in far too much make-up and a peacock-blue robe that matched the colour on her eyelids perfectly, quirked her lips and fluttered her feathered fan daintily in her face. “What do you take me for, Malfoy? Would you think so lowly of me?”

“I’m merely a realist.”

“Not to worry, Malfoy. I’ll keep her in line,” Blaise said, flashing his dashing smile and sweeping a hand through slicked hair in an offhand manner that would have made most young women in the vicinity swoon.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Why does that not fill me with confidence?”

Greg stepped forwards, tugging at the collar of his high-necked robe. “Don’t worry, Malfoy. I’ll keep _him_ in line.”

“Are you considered forgoing drinking tonight, then?”

Greg frowned, confused. “What? No, of course not. Why?”

The urge to sigh was even stronger this time. “This is something of a lost cause. Remind me why I invited the two of you again?” His night seemed increasingly likely to end with his head in his hands. Turning resolutely from his friends, he took the lead once more into the ballroom. 

_That_ room was exceptional. It almost fit the grandeur the name ‘Our Saint’s Hall’ suggested. As large as a quidditch pitch, the room was high ceilinged with every shadow and corner illuminated by the larger and more extravagant cousin of the foyer’s chandelier. White walls were tinted gold in the orange light of the candles adorning every wall, from the magically glowing crystals of the crystals in the chandelier. A band outfitted in unforgiving white robes strummed and tooted mutedly on their instruments, adding a gentle melody to the buzzing chatter of several hundred people from their raised seats on the dais.

For there were hundreds, much to Draco’s disgruntlement. Just about every person from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement must have been there, and it became apparent why many claimed it to be the largest department in the Ministry. It also explained why they had their own, exclusive Christmas party while most of the other departments banded together for such celebratory events. The guest list requested one accompaniment per person, something that Draco could have made use of to disallow Blaise’s attendance except that, one, Greg didn’t have a guest of his own so there was a spot to spare and two, he likely would have forced himself past the ushers regardless.

Once upon a time, Draco would have revelled in such a crowd. He’d been comfortable in its midst and even more comfortable at the centre of attention. Now, he could only look upon the masses, upon the milling employees all decked out in their finest dress robes chattering formally to one another as white-robed waiters waded amongst them carrying laden trays of sparkling champagne, and feel wearied. It was all an elaborate farce of which he had grown sorely tired of, and of which the reserved attendants would soon deteriorate into snorting laughter and exclamations that would be lost beneath those of their fellows.

Wading through the crowds and leading his trio of friends like a trail of ducklings, Draco headed for his customary station to the right of the band’s dais, just beside the series of double doors leading onto the expansive, night-darkened balcony. He’d acquired his preferred position some years ago when he’d first become an attendant of the biannual department celebrations, and had coveted the spot jealously. It held just the right light to observe the room and its occupants at large, allowing him to engage in the amusing activity of people watching while deterring potential conversation partners with the noise of the band.

Pansy, who had been his accompaniment on more than one occasion to such parties – mostly because the rest of his friends were always ‘otherwise engaged’ or simply expressed a deterring distaste for the process entirely – barely even glared at him anymore for is self-imposed ostracism. She instead stood quietly, fluttering her fan in her face with gaze sweeping across the slowly swelling crowd with a distinctly predatory gleam in her eye. Draco wasn’t particularly surprised that she saw fit to ignore his request; she had far too much fun with sucking dry the Aurors, ministers and working class individuals that attended such receptions.

Draco turned his own attention to the crowd, adopting a bored and detached expression to disguise any potential curiosity he may experience upon viewing a particularly interesting conversation. Like the confrontation between Jullian Marvough and Kenneth O’Connelly, the two of which had nearly come to blows at the mid-summer party six months prior and were now attempting and largely failing stilted, formal conversation. They’d likely nearly descend into blows again by the end of the evening.

Across to one side there was small clutch of women from the Investigators sub-department who were by and large referred to as Medusa’s Children for the deterring glares they directed towards anyone who passed too closely to their silent group. They were some of only a handful of women in the room who were not fluttering ornate fans in their faces, a fact that Draco appreciated. The latest addition to formal attire – slowly adopted from Spain yet translated not half as well – was not one of Britain’s finest choices in the national fashion department.

Over the other side of the room there was the awkward and largely amusing correspondence between Lurring’s and Jos’ deputies, Esquere and McFergusson, who everyone knew held nothing but condescension for one another’s areas of expertise. To be a fly on the wall when a verbal dance was enacted between them was to learn some incompetently veiled secrets pertaining to both of their personal lives. Enough that Pansy would be left rubbing her hands together gleefully.

And then there was Harry Potter. Because there was always Harry Potter. Draco didn’t even try to disguise the fact that his eyes scanned the crowds for an unkempt mop of black hair; it wasn’t like anyone was paying the slightest bit of attention to him anyway. And like a magnet to a lodestone, Draco inevitably found himself staring.

How could he not? Even if he didn’t let himself admit it aloud – he barely did so to himself – Draco was under no allusions that he was infatuated. And it didn’t help his problem any that the latest style of men’s dress robes was entirely too flattering upon Harry’s frame. The Captain of the Elites stood across the other side of the room, Ginevra Weasley to one side of him and someone – Harkins? – to his other, but Draco had no difficulty pinpointing him. Nor in admiring the fitted cut of his robe’s waistline, the tightness of rich fabric across his shoulders and the sweep of wide sleeves falling to mid fingers.

It was hardly Draco’s fault, he rationalised. It wasn’t like he was the only one staring, and not simply because Haryy was famous. He cut a sleek, trim figure that naturally drew the eye. Besides, such watching provided a favourable distraction to the following half an hour of waiting for the stragglers of the guest list to arrive. There was only so many times he could turn away the overeager waiters as they passed him and offered him a drink before he forcibly Apparated one of them from his sight.

Like clockwork, as the bell chimed eight o’clock, there was a moment of muted upheaval, a slight raising of voices and a scatter of figures vaguely central to the crowd, and Krax extracted himself from its midst. Heading towards the band’s dais, he trotted up the steps and turned to face his employees and guests alike, champagne glass held aloft in one hand. Draco couldn’t help but notice that the man’s dress robes didn’t fit him quite so well as Harry’s did, nor that the slight flush to his cheeks suggested he’d partaken in perhaps a few too many glasses of champagne already. Not that Draco could blame him; he had it on good authority – from Pansy, largely – that Krax arrived for such events a full two hours before the first guest. It had to be boring.

A tinkling chime of a muttered charm drew the attention of any who hadn’t already noticed Krax’s obvious positioning. The Head of Department offered a broad, friendly smile to the sea of people below him, holding his glass aloft in a toast that Draco knew was at least another half an hour in coming.

“Welcome! Welcome, all, to Our Saint’s Hall to celebrate once more the survival of another year.”

There was a pause for applause that was coupled with enough hoots and cries of approval that Draco simply _had_ to roll his eyes. Blaise snickered and muttered something to Pansy’s obvious approval. Greg looked faintly confused when she swatted the Italian man teasingly with her fan.

“First and foremost, I would like to wish everyone a very Merry Christmas this year. For the first time in nearly a decade, we have all our Field Aurors home and present on British soil to share in this holiday with their families. Congratulations to everyone for a job well done.” Krax beamed like a proud parent to the repeated applause and even louder approval from the crowd. Draco rolled his eyes once more. It wasn’t like it was any particular skill on part of the Law Enforcement Department that no international cache of dark witches and wizards had been unearthed to be dealt with at Christmas time. Sheer dumb luck was more to thank.

Krax continued with his speech that was, Draco recognised, much the same as it had been for the past four years. Saving that he had made good use of a thesaurus and supplanted the numbers when listing the achievements of various individuals and squads, yes, it was almost exactly the same. By the time he finished with a toast – and more applause from his audience – Draco was thoroughly sick of the sound of his superior’s voice.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t the end of it. There was a very good reason that Draco disliked such work parties. One in particular was the excessive number and of duration speeches.

Lurring of the Investigatory sub-department stalked up next, and nearly put the crowd to sleep with his dry, monotonous tone, thanking his fellows for their hard work. Only for them all to be reawakened once more when Head Auror Jos filled his place, laughing and cajoling his listeners into joviality with anecdotes of missions that held absolutely no relevance to the situation at hand. Draco didn’t find it altogether amusing, though Greg chuckled on more than one occasion. Perhaps it was simply a ‘had to be there’ sort of situation?  
  
Draco went back to people watching. And Harry watching, he would admit to himself, though darted his eyes away whenever Pansy leant into him to hiss nonsense into his ear or to point out a particularly appalling outfit. She wasn’t listening any more than Draco was, and had developed her own method of entertainment for such instances. Something that Blaise – staring dull-eyed and almost scowling up at Jos – had not quite managed yet.

By the time Jos clambered down from the dais, Draco had submitted to accepting a glass of champagne from the silent, fluid waiters that had swept through the crowd throughout the speeches. He sipped at it idly as, by direction, the crowds parted and drew towards the walls of the room, allowing for white-draped dining tables and daintily carved chairs to be conjured into existence. He followed Pansy and Blaise as they led the way towards one such table, urging Greg to follow when he appeared momentarily distracted in the aftermath of his chuckles, and sunk into his seat before most other people had even realised the conjugation had been completed.

“Thank Salazar, I thought they were never going to end,” Blaise sighed, shaking his head and crinkling his brow in mock sobriety. “I knew there was a reason I never came with you after the first time. Malfoy, if I ever make the mistake of asking you again –“

“I’ll inform you that you are a fool and allow you to cede my superiority and better judgment,” Draco supplied, turning his attention to the thin, laminated menu placed atop the array of his empty crockery and gleaming cutlery. “Yes, I will be sure to do that.”

“How anyone could find such tiresome speeches entertaining is beyond me. I don’t know how they didn’t put themselves to sleep.”

“I quite like Jos’ one. He was funny,” Greg said, frowning slightly at Blaise’s words. He seemed more confused than affronted, however.

Pansy, seated between Blaise and Greg, patted his shoulder consolingly without even glancing towards him. “It’s alright, Goyle, he’s not around to hear you badmouth him. You’re farce of loyalty towards your employer can be effectively dropped for the time being.”

“What?”

“Honestly, Zabini, you’re just so inexperienced in such situations,” Pansy continued, ignoring Greg’s redirected confusion entirely. “You’ve simply got to know where to look. Gather intelligence for future exploits. For instance, did you see Maghdeline Turnbull’s face when Lurring mentioned Herper? _That’s_ something I intend to pursue post-haste.”

“Please minimise the sadism, Parkinson,” Draco intoned dutifully, though honestly he hardly cared. Maghdeline Turnbull had been a thorn in his side since his confrontation with her husband over his ineptitude a year ago.

“Yes, yes, of course. I’ll keep a tether on my pleasure seeking,” Pansy assured him. Draco wasn’t convinced in the slightest but resolutely ignored his suspicions, returning to skimming the menu instead.

If there was one positive of the department’s Christmas parties, it was the cuisine. Draco had long since discovered that, whether they were house elves or Wizarding master chefs, someone in the kitchens had talent. The arrival of a salty miso soup, steaming okonomiyaki and a delectably sweet anmitsu in quick succession – Draco had become partial to Japanese of late, so the inclusion of such dishes in the array of the menu was entirely to his satisfaction – left him in a far better mood than he had been prior to the meal.

It was enough that, when the last of the morsels disappeared from the plates of the rest of the diners and much of the crowd began to rise from their seats to mill once more, he didn’t feel the inclination to protest when Pansy jumped to her feet with a wave of her fan and dove into the masses. Draco wouldn’t be surprised if she’d stashed quill, ink and parchment up her sleeves to jot down the tastiest rumours she’d undoubtedly acquire that evening.

Blaise, smiling fondly at her afterimage, turned to Draco. “Are you going to go and get her?”

“Do I look like I’m inclined to drag Parkinson kicking and screaming from her latest prey?”

Blaise chuckled. “You make her enthusiasm sound like a bad thing.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Not in the slightest. And it’s actually quite amusing so long as you’re not the object of her obsessive focus.”

“I thought you liked being the focus of Parkinson’s attention, Zabini?” Greg unexpectedly spoke up. Draco felt himself struggle to contain a smirk at the incredulity that arose on Blaise’s face; Greg might appear dim and more than a little slow on most occasions – mostly because he actually tended to be – but he could also demonstrate remarkable observation skills at unexpected times.

“I doubt it’s that kind of attention Zabini is hoping for,” Draco offered to Greg, who nodded understandingly in a way that assured Draco he didn’t fully understand at all. Oh, to be innocent.

Shaking his head, Blaise rose to his feet. “Well, if you won’t rescue her, then I will.”

“She hardly needs rescuing, Zabini. If anyone does, it would be the unfortunate individuals she intends to trap in her webs.”

“I was actually thinking more in terms of her likely need to flee from the aggressive masses after prodding one time too many,” Blaise expanded.

“Ah. Yes, you may be right.”

Draco nodded in farewell as Blaise shook his head long-sufferingly and disappeared after Pansy. He turned towards Greg after a moment of contemplation – how best to avoid associating with his friends for the rest of the evening? – and arched an eyebrow. “Are you going to stay at the table, Goyle?”

Greg, who had been curiously peering around himself and hadn’t appeared to notice Blaise’s disappearance, nodded slowly. He didn’t glance towards Draco when he answered. “Yeah, I think I’ll… I’ll just wait here.”

Draco sighed, fighting the urge to rub at the bridge of his nose. “You know, sitting here and peering around you for any glimpse of Yvonne isn’t going to do you any favours." 

“I’m not looking for Yvonne.”

“Really?"

“I’m not,” Greg assured him, though continued his very telling glancing. “I’m just looking…”

“For Le Vonde?” Draco suggested.

“Yeah. Wait, no –“

“Don’t bother, Goyle,” Draco said, rising to his feet. “Yvonne and Le Vonde broke up about a week ago.”

“They did?”

“Don’t get your hopes up. She’s already moved onto Creevey,” Draco continued. It was useless, however. Greg looked markedly brighter already, even smiling slightly as he continued his skimming scan. Draco wasn’t sure if he disregarded Creevey as competition for Yvonne’s very brief affections or if he simply hadn’t heard him. It hardly mattered, though. All of Draco’s friends had tried to urge Greg to move on. He wasn’t taking it.

Pushing his chair back, Draco drifted away from the table and back towards his customary position beside the dais. It took little effort to assume a mildly appreciative expression, tilting his head slightly as though he was simply enjoying the music while he sipped at another glass of champagne offered at the courtesy of drifting waiter. He knew from experience that such an expression was a fairly effective deterrence for potential approaches.

That, and he’d made it his mission to ensure as much. Friendly though people may try to be, but there were only so many times they could reattempt a very one-sided conversation before they gave up.

The thrumming of the band was a throbbing undertone to the chatter of the Law Enforcement employees and their accompaniments. Draco returned to his people watching once more – because there was really little else he could do; it would be unseemly to leave before eleven o’clock – and actually found himself almost entertained on a number of occasions. Typically, Medusa’s Children soon acquired a particularly wide berth around their table, and Esquere and McFergusson’s conversation had at one point heightened to such intensity that Draco could hear it from across the room. What Anastasia Charlez had to do with Esquere’s dog would remain a mystery – particularly given the internationally recognised fear of canines by the top model – but Draco would bare the titbit in mind.

Naturally, it took barely an hour before his attention was fixed solely upon Harry. He’d set himself a challenge to see how long it would take for such an inevitability to occur, but his attempt was waylaid by the cringeworthy sight of Pansy hovering over Minister Maynard, a quill held aloft over a parchment notepad and completely ignoring the very obvious discomfort on his face.

Harry’s own situation seemed little better than Maynard’s, and it didn’t take a much to deduce wherein lay the source of his distress. Abandoned – or perhaps misplaced – at some point by Ginevra Weasley, he’d somehow landed himself in the clutches of Alfreda Reece. The waspish journalist was almost as bad as her widely known predecessor, with the only difference between she and Rita Skeeter being her tendency towards leopard print rather than crocodile skin. They even had the same abominable hairstyle.

Reece, funnily enough, appeared almost identical to Pansy in her persistent drilling of questions. Draco didn’t miss the irony of that, especially given his lack of sympathy towards Maynard while it persistently arose in Harry’s defence. For Harry definitely deserved the sympathy. Anyone even glancing at him would offer it in a moment; he embodied the word ‘uncomfortable’ to a T, from the thin pursing of his lips to the awkward shifting from foot to foot and the way he grazed his fingers through his hair in a raking gesture that Draco had slotted in his inventory of ‘Harry Gestures of Awkwardness’.

Draco liked it when Harry did that. He did _not_ like it when such a motion was induced by anyone but himself. 

It was probably because Draco stared at him for so long that Harry eventually met his gaze, that is was simply inevitable that his shifting gaze would meet Draco’s at some point. Draco, however, liked to think that he simply felt the weight of it resting upon him. Some might call him a romantic for thinking in such a way – and they’d be wrong – but it still gave him a faint thrill. He arched an eyebrow at Harry, who offered a one shouldered, helpless shrug in reply, apparently striving to ignore the most recent assault of Reece’s questions. Withholding a smirk, Draco cocked his head to the side and gestured unobtrusively towards the doors leading to the balcony. The relief that flooded Harry’s face at the proffered lifeline was telling enough that Draco didn’t need to glance over his shoulder to ensure Harry followed before slipping through the glass doors and into the semi-darkness.

The brief seepage of sound, rising before it was stemmed once more by the closing door, indicated Harry’s arrival onto the balcony moments later. Draco didn’t glance from his gazing out across the silent, pristine and largely indiscernible gardens, and only offered his a sidelong stare when Harry stepped up to his side.

Harry deflated. There was no other word to describe the heavy sigh as he dropped his elbows onto the curved stone coping that capped the balustrade, chin propping onto one hand and gaze following the path of that which Draco had been pretending to focus upon. He seemed to be quite comfortable in the silence. Or perhaps he simply revelled in a break from Reece’s drilling questions.

“Had enough?” Draco asked. Because although Harry might appreciate the silence, Draco was never one to be close-lipped save when around unlikeable companionship. Harry wasn’t particularly unlikeable by any stretch of the imagination. Not at all.

“You have no idea.”

“Why do you even come to these things if you so dislike them.”

“I don’t dislike them,” Harry said, lips pursing once more in a telling indication of his falsehood. “They’re just a little…" 

“Dull? Overwhelming? Excessive?” 

“Yeah, I’d say you nailed it.” 

“Mind-numbing? Exhausting? A complete waste of time and money for all involved.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Harry laughed, pushing himself up to standing straight once more. Draco savoured the very fact that he’d caused Harry to laugh; one point to Malfoy.

“Perhaps you could put a word in to Krax for the rest of us. He dotes upon you; he’d listen if you asked.”

Harry rolled his eyes as he tilted his head towards Draco. “He doesn’t ‘dote’ on me –“

“He most certainly does. It’s recognised department-wide.”

“No, he doesn’t. We just get along relatively well." 

“Oh, so I’m sure he’d be prepared to offer an elitist position and a designated squad to just about anyone, then?”

Even in the darkness Harry had the grace to look embarrassed, cheeks flushing slightly. Two points to Malfoy. “Well, yeah, but… that’s not because he dotes on me…”

“I’m sure,” Draco falsely agreed, taking a sip from the dregs of his champagne.

It was relatively warm outside despite the softly falling snow and icy breeze that howled distantly down the far end of the acreage. Draco admired the spell work of those responsible for the Warming Charms that shrouded the balcony, providing the perfect atmosphere for a quiet and exclusive conversation between himself and Harry.

Removed entirely from onlooking eyes.

Alone.

And if it was a little bit awkward – because it was always awkward with Draco when it came to Harry. How could it not be? – then Draco could live with that. It was far better than missing the opportunity to talk.

For they actually could talk, as they rarely did in passing one another in the corridors of the ministry. Draco preferred this far more. Harry filled Draco in on the harpies that had bombarded him throughout the evening while Draco offered a run down of the incidents he’d witnessed from his bird’s eye seat beside the band. He drew another succession of chuckles from Harry when regaling him of Pansy’s fluttering exploits. Draco fathomed that he was at least up to fifteen points within half an hour.

It seemed so strange that they had once been rivals. So strange. Draco almost couldn’t imagine it, and hardly cared to.

“I can almost pity Frey for catching Pansy’s eye,” Harry chuckled with a shake of his head. “I suppose it’s simply a good thing she doesn’t have a camera on her.”

“I wouldn’t pity him, not with his choice in headpieces. He deserves it.” Draco took a sip of his champagne before balancing the empty glass upon the coping beside his first glass. The waiters, to their credit, had found their little niche and wordlessly offered the beverages like good little attendants. “And not to worry, I’m sure Zabini has the pictures covered.”

“He’s actually her designated cameraman these days?”

Draco shook his head, then shrugged. “No, not really. He’s a bit of a contract worker, but that contract is inevitably filled with Parkinson when he’s pursing her.”

“And is he? Pursing her, I mean.”

“At the moment it would seem so. We’ll see how long this one lasts for.”

Harry shook his head, smiling. “What does this make it, the third time they’ve gotten together?”

“It’s never quite so uncomplicated as ‘together’ with those two,” Draco corrected. “And this would be their eleventh.”

“Eleventh? Jeez, why don’t they just get married already?" 

“Marriage? Between Zabini and Parkinson?” The shudder Draco gave wasn’t entirely feigned. “I could hardly imagine anything more horrifying.”

“Well, they’re obviously meant for each other if they’ve returned to one another nearly a dozen times,” Harry said. There was a faintly wistful expression on his face that left Draco nothing if not bemused. 

“What about you, then?” The words slipped forth before Draco could quite stop them.

“Me?”

“You and Weasley.” _Stop, stop talking now, please. You’re making a right fool of yourself._

Harry frowned for a moment. “What, Ron?”

That drew a snort from Draco, but he couldn’t stop himself from continuing. “No, you idiot. The Weaslette.”

“You shouldn’t call her that,” Harry chided, but a small smile touched his lips once more. “But what about her?”

“No wedding bells on the horizon?”

 _Merlin, be damned,_ please _stop speaking!_ Draco would have clamped a hand across his mouth would it not have appeared so undignified.

Harry shook his head, seemingly unperturbed in the slightest. “Not for me, no.”

“What, not yet?”

“Why the sudden interest, Malfoy? I would have been sure you’d heard the local gossip that we’d broken up. A whole year ago, in fact.”

“Ah, but that was before her obnoxious presence appeared upon your arm tonight,” Draco elaborated. He inwardly cringed; surely anyone would see straight through his flimsy attempt at concealing the truth. Even Harry wouldn’t be so slow. Surely he’d finally realise –

“No, not for us. I appreciate your apparently heartfelt consideration for my romantic life, though, Draco.” And damn him, Harry actually sounded sincere. How could anyone be so oblivious? Draco almost wanted him to realise.

Draco sniffed, attempting to reinstate his tattered composure. “No replacements, then?”

“Replacement is a harsh way of looking at it,” Harry replied, his voice distant and thoughtful as he gazed across the dark gardens. He looked lost in thought, and Draco could only hope, irrational as such a hope was, that it wasn’t with regret. He entirely blamed Theodore for urging his questioning of Harry’s sexuality into his mind.

It was his fault _entirely_ that Draco now felt something akin to, yet not entirely, a flicker of hope.

Not that he would ever pursue it.

“But no,” Harry continued, and Draco’s attention snapped back onto him. “I haven’t. Not really looking for a girlfriend right now.” He turned towards Draco curiously. “What about you, then? I’d have thought I’d hear any rumour on the grapevine of your potential trysts, but the Malfoy name is very much overlooked, it seems. Why is that?”

Draco shrugged, very deliberately stilling his fingers from fiddling with the stem of his champagne glass. “The DMLE grapevine is overrated; they’re really not all that successful with their rumour-hunting. Although, even if they were they’d not have any fodder. I’ve sworn off relationships.”

“That’s a little sad,” Harry said, and the sincerity once more resounded in his voice.

“Not really. Simply practical. We can’t all be as perfectly and sickeningly made for one another as the Weasley’s and Granger’s of the world.”

Harry chuckled again. “That’s true. They are a bit of a match made in heaven.”

“Sickeningly so,” Draco repeated. “But speaking of, where is Weasley.”

“Ron drew duty tonight. We’ve had to have a couple of people posted at Devon twenty-four seven at the moment.”

“What, the Elites pulled that duty?”

“You bet.”

“And Weasley drew the short straw?”

Harry hummed in dissent. “The long straw, more like. We were all fighting over the chance to miss out on tonight. Watch duty is a valid enough reason.”

“You would consider freezing your bollocks off in Dartmoor preferable to attending a warm and comfortable though admittedly far too long Christmas do?”

“Of course. In a heartbeat,” Harry grinned.

“Hm.” Draco tilted his head thoughtfully. “I suppose I can accept that. Is there anyone who actually enjoys these things?”

“Besides Krax? Unlikely.”

“Krax and Parkinson,” Draco corrected.

“And Reece,” Harry added. Draco nodded in fervent agreement.

They chatted for a time longer, briefly discussing the supposedly very confidential Dartmoor case. Draco had little to do with the situation besides some rudimentary historical knowledge gathering on Devon and comparing the Hades Geiger readings, so it was interesting enough. And Harry, in what surely would have left his superiors and fellow Elites twitching nervously and frowning disapprovingly, was actually more than comfortable to relate the situation to him further.

Draco tried not to feel too smug with that fact.

They’d drifted onto Draco’s current work – still pertaining to transfiguration – and Draco had unexpectedly felt the need to express to Harry his frustration with Yorkley and his minimalistic work habits when they were interrupted. Not by another waiter this time, but by a glowing white dog.

The Patronus leapt onto the balcony from nowhere with the muted echo of a bark and the swishing wag of a tail. The dog was one of those little ones, the yappy ones that nipped at the heels. The annoying ones that Draco disliked, though, admittedly, he didn't much like dogs in general. Tendrils of Patronus white veil undulated around it in stillness as it waited. Very pointedly waited, too, with an intelligent gaze fixed upon Harry.

Harry pushed himself up from leaning on the coping, a slight frown upon his head. He cast an apologetic glance to Draco before stepping past him towards the Patronus. “It’s confidential. Sorry, Draco, I don’t mean to –“

“It’s fine,” Draco assured him. Any discontent he may have felt over being excluded from the message was alleviated by the apology. Even his unsatisfied curiosity over the caster of the Patronus, of which he was unfamiliar with, didn’t vex him too greatly. “I’ll leave.”

“No, don’t worry about it, I’ll just –“

“Really, Potter, it’s no trouble at all.” Draco lifted one of his glasses and air-toasted Harry condescendingly. “I’m feeling an urge for macaroons anyway, and I believe our wonderful servers are just beginning to make the rounds with the after-dinner sweets.”

Harry smirked amusedly, shaking his head slightly. He obviously wasn’t fooled, but didn’t protest further. “Thanks, Draco.”

Draco only spared him a raised hand of farewell, not even deigning to glance behind him however much he may have wished to, before slipping back indoors.

As soon as he was embraced by the warmth of bodies once more, Draco regretted his kindness in allowing Harry privacy. He hadn’t realised how refreshing the brief respite was and sorely longed for open air once more. And, more importantly, pleasant company. But he made good his words to Harry, taking an offered macaroon when it passed despite its disgustingly pink and artfully decorated arrangement, and repositioned himself back beside the dais.

Unfortunately, boredom ensued. Perhaps it was the contrast of talking to Harry – actually talking to him, as they so rarely did outside of their infrequent and brief conversations in the Ministry – but even his people watching seemed suddenly uninteresting. It wasn’t even that he’d spoken of anything of particular note with Harry; call it the effect of infatuation, but even small talk that he had to fight for casualness with throughout was preferable. Desirable, even. So it didn’t surprise Draco in the slightest he found himself gazing purposefully around the Hall once more, eyes searching for Harry.

Nor did it really surprise him when his feet directed him to check out upon the balcony for Harry’s presence. It was all to alleviate his heightening boredom, for sure, and it had been a full twenty minutes already. Well, fifteen, rally, but nearly sixteen.

Harry wasn’t on the balcony. Nor did it seem that he was in the Hall. Draco checked, and his radar was particularly well-honed that night so he was under no allusions that he simply overlooked him. Good company was hard to find, and sorely lost.

That was how Pansy found him another ten minutes later, arms folded and scowling fiercely enough that one of Medusa’s Children unfortunate enough to be in the direction of his gaze shifted uncomfortably.

“Malfoy, what _are_ you so unhappy about?”

Draco shifted his glare towards Pansy instead. “Unhappy? I’m not unhappy. I’m in a wonderful mood. Bordering on ecstatic, even.”

“Really? In that case, I shudder at the thought of how you appear when melancholic.”

“Don’t you have a Zabini’s affections to abuse?” Draco grumbled.

Pansy cast a glance around herself with mild curiosity. “He was here a moment ago. But then I did mention how much I really would like a picture of Frey for my Monday column…”

“You didn’t."  
  
Pansy beamed in self-satisfaction. “I will always use every weapon in my arsenal.”

“Weapon is certainly the correct term for it,” Draco murmured in agreement. He almost felt sorry for the hapless Blaise. It was cyclical, this puppy love of his. Draco only hoped for his friend’s sake that this bout would be short in lasting.

“Don’t take out your frustration on me and Zabini,” Pansy scolded him, frowning. “Just because Potter abandoned you –“

“Harry didn’t abandon me. He got a Patronus message.”

Pansy smirked. “So quick to rise to your own defence, Malfoy?”

Draco shrugged nonchalantly. “It’s hardly defence when I’m merely correcting your misguided beliefs.”

“It hardly bothers _me_ that Potter abandoned you.”

“He didn’t abandon –“

“But I feel it my duty to draw you from your slump when it is so obviously effecting the good humour of those around you. Look, you’ve got yourself a little moat now; no one wants to be anywhere near you.” And, following the guiding gesture of Pansy’s hand, Draco realised that he had indeed distanced those nearest to him to a degree.

He shrugged. Good. He didn’t really want to be suffocated by sweating, over-dressed bodies. “Maybe I like it like that.”

“Oh, stop your moping. He’ll be back and you can get on with your infatuation.”

Draco narrowed his eyes at his friend. “It is _not_ infatuation, Parkinson.”

“So you maintain.” Her smirk widened further.

“It is _not_.”

“Yes, yes, of course not,” Pansy chimed in a disgustingly sing-song voice. “So long as you keep telling yourself that. I have noticed something though, Draco. Something of particular interest.”

“Have you really?” Draco very resolutely trained his gaze upon the back of a ridiculously tall witch’s hat. Hadn’t the pointed fashion died from the older generations yet?

“Mm, I have,” Pansy persisted, as though she held Draco’s rapt attention. “And I think you’d be curious to hear it actually spoke aloud.”

“I wouldn’t.”

Pansy giggled her delight, which only caused Draco to train his glare upon her. She maintained her aloof disregard, however, continuing carefree. “Have you noticed, Malfoy, that you call Potter Harry?”

Slowly turning his head fully towards Pansy, Draco narrowed his eyes further. “As I recall, you took great pleasure in revisiting the revelation of my first-name basis with Harry for a solid month, Parkinson. Are you losing your touch? Is news so dull that you must revisit the past?”

Pansy didn’t look deterred in the least. Her smile only widened, and Draco was disconcerted to realise it was the same predatory smile she’d worn earlier that night. He took an unconscious step back; her teeth looked worryingly sharp. “That’s not what I meant, Draco. I mean that, if you haven’t noticed, you’ve been calling me Parkinson all night.”

“Of course. I always do –“

“But you call Potter Harry. What happened to last name basis when in a formally public context, hm?”

Draco opened his mouth to reply, only to find that no words were forthcoming. He struggled humiliatingly for a moment before snapping his jaw shut. The truth of Pansy’s words resounded without him even having to think about it.

Damn. How had such a slip passed his notice?

Pansy looked far too pleased with herself, and all of a sudden Draco wished to be anywhere but surrounded by increasingly intoxicated colleagues and a self-satisfied ex-friend. “I think I’ll take my leave for tonight.”

Pansy chortled. “What, running away from the truth, Malfoy?”

“Hardly. It’s,” Draco pulled his fob watch from his breast pocket and was surprised to realise it had passed eleven o’clock without his notice. “Eleven twenty eight. I have done my duty in staying until past eleven and now feel no further obligation to remain in this sorry place.”

“You’re such a killjoy,” Pansy sighed.

“That I am. Thank you for noticing.” Draco slipped the watch back into his pocket and turned to leave. “Are you staying longer?” He asked, glancing over his shoulder towards Pansy once more.

For her part, Pansy’s teasing mood seemed to have become distracted, her gaze fixed upon something across the room. “What, me? Don’t be ridiculous, Draco, the night is still young. I have the tastiest morsels still to sample.”

Draco pulled a face. “Yes, well, you have fun with your… tasting.”

“I most certainly will.”

“Make sure Goyle doesn’t get too drunk. He was pining for Yvonne again.”

“Pining seems to be a common theme this evening,” Pansy smirked, taking a moment to spare him a condescending glance.

Draco ignored her. “And if Zabini winds up in custody again tonight for taking unwanted photographs, inform him that I’ve done my duty once before and I’m not bailing him out again.”

“I’ll be sure to mention it to him.”

Nodding, Draco turned on his heel and strode away from Pansy. She didn’t call after him, and he didn’t really expect her to. He’d gotten her into the party, and she never felt any compunction to remain loyally at his side after that initial assistance. Quite the opposite, in fact; she had on more than one occasion explained that her retrieval of stories was very distinctly jeopardised by Draco’s presence. Apparently he induced close-lip-ness. 

If only Yorkley knew as much.

Striding through the front doors of Our Saint’s Hall, Draco made for the _Lumos_ -illuminated ring of the Apparation point down the steps. He spared only a passing thought, almost a regret, that he wouldn’t be there should Harry resurface from his disappearance once more, but it was only passing. 

There would always be another time. Wouldn’t there?


	7. Of Dogs, Birds and Animagus

Draco wasn’t sure how he ended up in Dartmoor. He hadn’t consciously decided to Apparate to the national park wedged between Exeter and Plymouth rather than onto the outskirts of Smittson’s View, but nonetheless found himself cracking into existence in the pitch black moors at eleven thirty at night.

He put it down to the conversation he’d shared with Harry. That, and his sudden remembrance in the instant before Apparation that Weasley’s Patronus was a dog.

The moors suddenly seemed like the place to be that night.

What Draco was most surprised at, however, was that contrary to the specifications his subconsciousness would have undoubtedly set, he did not find himself in front of the Two Bridges Hotel that was nestled in the heart of the moors. He knew from both his brief inclusion in researching the region and from Harry’s offhand words that the tidy little hotel was the relay point for trips into the area. It had become something of a convenient port of call for extended missions or night stays.

Draco could only make out the distant twinkle of artificial lights a significant distance down the road he found himself standing upon. Around him was instead were stretches of flat blackness embedded with darker splodges of what he could only assume to be huddles of trees and collections of rocks. The darkness of night was so profound that, despite the fog smoking before him with every breath and the icy slickness of the road beneath his feet, the surrounding countryside layered in a blanket of snow was illuminated only faintly grey.

With a shiver in his suddenly minimalistic robes, Draco extricated his wand and muttered a Warming Charm. Heat flooded through him and eased his tensing muscles, allowing him to consider his situation once more without the added weight of compressing chills. Which was when he noticed the Anti-Apparation wards.

Every member of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was forced to undergo a series of particular training sessions. These courses ranged from basic relaying of information and how to adequately draft reports in succinct language to a range of shield charms and basic healing. Even the Investigatory sub-department, Draco included, had to know how to defend oneself.

One such lesson was in the detection of magic. It was by and large expected that every Auror and Investigator was able to notice traces of magic, to deduce potential spells from the density of those traces and the presence of Dark magic, and to detect lingering charms that remained suspended without the direct presence of the caster. Experienced or particularly sensitive individuals could even detect magical signatures, to correlate the traces of one spell with another by the ‘flavour’ that remained behind like a fingerprint. It was because of these lessons of which Draco thoroughly approved of that he noticed the Anti-Apparation wards at all. Such as the one hanging directly before him like an invisible curtain in the frozen air. 

He prodded at the ward with his wand, feeling the faint, tell tale tremble of magic as he eased the tip through. Well, that would explain why he hadn’t been able to Apparate to the hotel. From the looks of it, the wards domed directly over the site. The owners of Two Bridges were Muggle but had been working in conjunction with wizards and witches for years, so it wasn’t to preserve their ignorance in excluding nearby Apparations entirely. Meaning it must be for protective purposes.

Which also meant both that the situation had become more severe and the knowledge of the target location more refined in the days since Draco had last been in the loop. That understanding vexed him a little, even knowing that it was not his place to become involved in the field.

Draco didn’t know exactly what he’d intended to do, but whether, given time, he would have continued down the road towards Two Bridges or simply Apparated to Smittson’s View once more he didn’t know. And wouldn’t know, either, for before he could make any decision a deep, dark echo of magic erupted from behind him.

Since the war, Draco had wondered if he was perhaps more sensitive to Dark magic than most. Perhaps he noticed it more than others, was more in tune to it due to overexposure in the war, but for whatever reason he’d always found himself to be quite partial to recognising traces of its occurrence.

Not that the explosion of magic in the distance behind him could have been easily overlooked by anyone with an iota of sensitivity to magic. Spinning around, Draco felt with his magical senses a tidal wave of magic exploding like a firework in the night. The exact nature of the spell was uncertain, but from the following eruption of Light magic that followed Draco could only assume there was some kind of a battle going on.

Draco had always been quite proud of his self-preservation skills. Subconscious as they were, they had often in the past served him in reacting before he was consciously aware of the danger he was in. There were incidents in the past were that preservation had been subverted, where Draco found himself acting out in an entirely un-self-serving manner, but they were relatively few and far between when considering the overall picture. And most of those incidents, Draco had to admit, involved situations pertaining to Harry Potter. The incident at his manor when he was seventeen, for instance, or their numerous clashes at school, both actively and passively induced by Harry. The situation with a certain hippogriff in third year sprung to mind; Draco was not deluded enough to believe that his inclination to act out had been driven significantly by anything but Harry’s actions with the horse-bird earlier in the class.

So in any other situation, Draco was certain that his self-preservation would have kicked him and immediately Apparated him from the moors. However, undermining his most logical of voices was the niggling reminder that it was the Elite squad that was apparently on duty that night, and that Harry was the captain of that squad. And, more importantly, that Harry had received a Patronus messenger from Weasley – on duty in said moors – and had thence disappeared. Was Harry somewhere out in the darkness, battling a Dark witch or wizard? It was unlikely that Draco would be of any assistance – more likely that he would be a hindrance – but just the thought, the very prospect of not knowing, was agitating.

Harry could take care of himself. He was an Elite Auror, so of course he could. But Draco just had to check anyway. No one even knew the nature of the Dark spell casters in the region. They could be anyone, of any skillset. Who knew what the Elites were up against?

So, casting a wordless _Lumos_ to light his way – for he didn’t have so much confidence in his ice-skating abilities that he felt he didn’t need to watch his step on the slick roads – Draco strode in the direction of the explosive magic and away from the hotel. He kept his eyes fastened on the invisible point of blackness in the night, magical senses open and questing. He even took a moment to cast a Detection Charm at a twenty-meter radius around himself; it would be better to have even a split second of warning of a fired spell or charging assailant than nothing at all.

That charm was the very reason that he froze in step not five minutes later, breath stuttering to a halt and eyes narrowing to peer into the darkness. One… no, two… _four_ magical presences abruptly broke through the sensitive tangle of magical weaves he’d cast around himself. He couldn’t discern if they were aggressive, if they were of a Dark or a Light nature. His heart beat loudly in his chest, the sound throbbing in his ears. Calm… breathe… he wasn’t trained for this, not for field work, but that didn’t mean he was ignorant of what to do.

Grounding his feet, Draco hefted his lit wand. With narrowed eyes, he peered through the darkness towards his potential attackers. His wand barely wavered, hardly trembling only slightly as he directed it defensively before himself. He’d fight if he had to… if he _had_ to, regardless of who they were. Regardless of it they were a – 

A… a dog.

Blinking in surprise, Draco’s wand arm unconsciously dropped slightly. Trotting into the light of his _Lumos_ was very obviously a dog. Not even a wolf but a large, long-haired dog, its fur nearly maroon for the darkness of the ruddy shade. It approached him head on, barely slowing within five steps and Draco, hardly fond of canines at the best of times, took an unconscious step backwards.

The dog changed, then. It reared on its hind legs, morphing in the nauseating transfiguration that Draco immediately realised was that of an Animagus. Fur retracted disconcertingly into pale skin, knees popping forwards instead of backwards and snout scrunching inwards like a crumpled tin can. Within seconds the tall, broad figure of a man in dark red Auror robes took its place.

“What the bloody hell are you doing here, Malfoy?”

Weasley. It was _Weasley_. Somehow, impossibly, _Weasley_ was an Animagus. Admittedly only a shaggy mutt, but still… _Weasley_? Had Draco not just seen the transformation with his own eyes, he would have believed it impossible. Animagus transfigurations were _hard_. Impossible for some, even. Draco had never tried – he hardly felt the inclination to transfigure himself into any sort of beast, even knowing that he’d be a respectable one because, naturally, he would be – but he knew it to be true. It was a rare witch or wizard that could achieve it so easily. 

The shock of the moment, of the revelation that Weasley was the dog, momentarily floored Draco. It was enough that he was rendered speechless, his mounting concern for the potential confrontation with Dark spell casters forgotten. Because Weasley was an Animagus. He would _never_ have guessed that. Would likely never fully get over his surprise.

Before he could recollect himself, Draco was jolted with another surprise. For trotting up just behind Weasley were another pair of beasts. The hulking black bear was a little hard to miss even in the darkness, and induced an entirely different sensation of nausea in Draco’s gut. The dainty deer, picking its way delicately over the icy road, was less so, but still disconcerting. Because if Weasley was an Animagus, then that would likely make the other two similarly Aurors. He doubted that a deer and a bear would otherwise get along quite so companionably; surely the bear would be more inclined to rip one of its companion’s haunches off.

And then it clicked.

The Elites. _That’s_ what they were? Animagus Aurors? Draco had not seen that coming. Not in the slightest.

“Oi. Malfoy. I asked you a question.”

Shaking himself out of his surprised stupor, Draco collected himself and pushed an aloof, condescending expression upon his face. “I am well aware you spoke, Weasley. I merely felt it unnecessary for me to deign to reply to such a statement.”

Even in the feebly glowing light of his _Lumos_ , Draco could make out the gradual mottling of Weasley’s cheeks. He scowled fiercely, fists clenching and jaw tightening. Draco wondered if the taller man considered hitting him. He’d like to see him try; Draco might not be a Field Auror but he was more than capable of defending himself from such base assaults. Weasley would be tumbling arse over head in an instant should he attempt as much.

Surprisingly, however, Weasley showed remarkable restraint. Casting his eyes briefly heavenward, he took a deep breath. “This is a restricted area, Malfoy. You should know that. It’s been posted on the Ministry noticeboard all week.”

Draco shrugged in an attempt at off-handedness. “Restricted to the public, yes. I, however, am not the public.”

“You and your bloody inflated ego –“

“Kindly leave my very healthy ego out of the conversation, Weasley. It has nothing to do with the situation.”

Weasley’s scowl deepened. “Shut up, for once, would you? Krax could get you suspended for this.”

“I quiver with fear,” Draco drawled, disregarding the shiver of discontent that ran through him at Weasley’s words. He was correct in that regard. Restricted areas were restricted for a reason. Draco knew this; he’d simply… not altogether considered his actions too thoroughly when very obviously not thinking about the destination of his Apparation. “But, as it happens, I have little inclination to remain here tonight. I, unlike some, am not bound to the miserable duty of scouting for potential Dark witches and wizards. The cold does my disposition no good at all.”

As if to punctuate his words, a feather-light snowfall began, sprinkling white blossoms onto them both. The glare that Weasley gave Draco could have melted the snowflakes that settled upon his shoulders. “You do realise that this is actually dangerous, right? I mean, that does actually get through your thick skull, doesn’t it?"

“What happened to all of that supposedly in-department amicability, Weasley?” Draco smirked, though if he was being truthful with himself he much preferred the objectionable Weasley to that which appeared nothing if not painfully incontinent whenever in his presence. Weasley was trying for the societal acceptance scheme, but didn’t appear to manage it quite so well when away from potentially onlooking eyes. “Should you not be caring for my wellbeing? Encouraging my leave to ‘protect myself’?”

“I couldn’t give a toss if you want to protect yourself or not,” Weasley growled, sounding very much like Draco anticipated the dog his Animagus form took would. “But I’m the one that has to clean up your bloody mess if you get caught in the crossfire –“ 

“Your concern is touching.”

“It’s not concern! There’s half a dozen bloody Dark magicals out here tonight, and –“

Weasley broke off at the last minute as the deer darted forwards and jabbed him with its nose. Weasley started, glancing towards it and adopting an expression of faint repent. When he turned back towards Draco it was with schooled composure, very nearly masking his obvious disgruntlement. “You really need to leave, Malfoy. It’s not safe here, and we need to leave here, too.”

“We meaning you and your fellow Elites, I’m assuming?” Draco nodded his head towards the stoic figures of the bear and the deer behind Weasley. The redhead shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t reply except to nod his head curtly.

Draco pursed his lips, inclining his head after a moment as though he were indeed the one doing Weasley the favour in obliging. “Alright, Weasley. I suppose to spit in the face of your concern should be the option less gratuitous. Such a road would lead to satisfaction for only one of us.”

Weasley’s face mottled again briefly, and he opened his mouth to speak before clamping it shut once more. His eyes snapped skyward again, and this time Draco realised that he appeared to be looking for something. Or someone, was more the disconcerting impression. Shaking his head slightly, he spun on his heel. “Whatever, Malfoy. Do whatever you want. But just so you know, I’m letting Krax and Lurring in on this when I check in at the office, and they’ll chew you out for it.”

“Resorting to schoolyard tattle-tales, Weasley? How juvenile of you,” Draco murmured, but he may as well have been speaking to empty air. For Weasley’s attention was already thoroughly consumed with his Animagus transformation, the likes of which caused Draco’s stomach to rebel, and in seconds the big, red dog took his place. Without a backwards glance he broke into a loping canter and disappeared into the darkness. The bear and deer followed after, only the deer pausing to spare Draco a brief glance before it too disappeared. 

Draco stared after them, stupefied, for a moment longer. The looming threat of Dark spell casters should have been enough to drive him to Apparate away from the moors instantly, and if not that then the increasingly heavy shower of sprinkling snowflakes should have. But Draco was still in a state of incredulity.

Weasley was an Animagus.

And the Elites, too. Apparently they were all Animagus. Weasley hadn’t confirmed as much, but his lack of denial and his accompaniment was indication enough.

And right on the tail of that, just surfacing with a flooring realisation… did that mean that Harry was too? Harry was an Animagus? All this time, for their years of not-quite-friendship, he’d held such an incredible secret and hadn’t told Draco?

It was irrational to think in such a way; Harry had no such compulsion to tell Draco his secrets. And such an enormous secret that was obviously utilised on a confidential basis for his Auror work? No, there was no necessity, and that was disregarding the fact that, despite Draco’s best wishes, he and Harry weren’t really all that close. But even so, Draco couldn’t help but feel disgruntled. It was that rather than the threat of being assaulted by dark spells, of facing Krax’s wrath and, even more tiresome, Lurring’s disapproving and fixed gaze, that filled his mind as he shook himself from stillness and spun into Apparation.

And it was likely because of that thought that Draco only realised later that he’d detected _four_ presences with his Detection Charm, not three. That realisation was only slow in coming, and disregarded when it eventually did.

~|=|~

TAP-TAP-TAP-TAP-TAP-TAP-TAP-  
  
Draco was torn from the depths of his sleep with a start. Swimming groggily into consciousness he pushed himself up in his bed. The incessant tapping, the sharp rap of beak on glass, continued, becoming increasingly demanding and rising in volume.  
  
Blinking into the darkness, Draco thrust his blankets aside and swung himself from his bed. Grabbing for his wand, he cast a hasty Warming Charm on the chilled floorboards beneath his feet followed by a _Lumos_ and a subsequent Tempus Charm.  
  
Two forty-one.  
  
He'd been asleep for barely an hour.  
  
Apparating back to Smittson's View had found Draco caught in a mulling mixture of moodiness and curiosity over the events that had transpired in Dartmoor. Of the Dark witches and wizards, certainly, and their apparent increase in activity, which was interesting enough in itself. Especially considering that neither the identity nor the intentions of the spell casters had yet been identified by the DMLE as far as Draco knew.  
  
But more than that, it was the revelation of the reality of the Elites that left him floored. Images of Weasley as a dog, of the bear and the doe, of Harry and the continued secret of his Animagus form, niggled at him like a birr in his sock. It had taken him what felt like far more than an hour and a half to eventually fall to sleep, even knowing as he logically did that thinking about the situation would do him absolutely no good at all.  
  
So it was with resentment that Draco made his way over to the window and the waiting merlin. Because of course it was Jack. Who else would be so presumptuous as to batter away at his window in the wee hours of the morning, demanding entry?  
  
Sweeping aside the curtains, Draco glared down at the tapping silhouette. Even peering through the window didn’t cause Jack to pause in his relentless tapping. “What do you want? You were only here last night. Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

There was no reply other than the continued tapping.

Frowning, Draco reached for the latch. His anger shifted with a brief and unexpected flicker of worry. Jack had made a habit of visiting more frequently over the past months, but he had never done so in successive nights. Draco couldn’t think of a valid reason for such – surely his belly was still filled with pasta from the previous night – so the only other possibility was that the merlin had somehow injured himself.

And despite himself, despite his fatigue and the disgruntlement he _should_ feel, the thought caused Draco concern.

That concern vanished the instant the window opened. Draco didn’t have time to even catch a glimpse of the bird for potential injuries before Jack was upon him. _Literally_ upon him.

In a mad, fluttering attack, the merlin launched himself through the window and towards Draco’s face. It was only reflexes that caused Draco to throw his hands up to cover his eyes, preventing a full-blown collision of beak to nose. Stumbling backwards, Draco released a cry that was _definitely_ not terrified and tumbled onto his bed.

Jack didn’t relent, even when Draco was lying flat on his back. Still flapping, still batting Draco’s head and cheeks and fingers with his wings while his vicious talons scored paper cut-like scratches upon every inch of bare skin, he attacked. The bird was mad. Had become mad, rabid, and _noisy_ with the “ki-ki-ki-ki-ki” that had erupted from him the instant he flung himself through the window.

Draco didn’t want to hurt the bird. Or at least, he hadn’t wanted to until about thirty seconds ago, when Jack abruptly decided that his face was his latest victim. Shock and confusion gave way to anger in a rapid burst, and with a muttered curse Draco swept his wand in a Repelling Charm. The blast threw the bird from him to tumble across the room.

Panting, Draco lay sprawled for a moment before heaving himself up. Wand still raised, still wary, he peered guardedly at the shadowy form of the merlin on the floor. A Protection Charm sat on the edge of his tongue, quivering in nervous anticipation of use.

It appeared to be unnecessary, however. Whatever fit of madness had overcome Jack had abruptly vanished. By the light of his _Lumos_ , Draco could see the little falcon slumped awkwardly on the floor, wings splayed at an uncouth angle and head bowed. His breaths were so heavy that they inflated his chest in a visible rise and fall. Draco considered that he might have been able to hear them.

“What… the fuck was that?”

It was all Draco could think to say. His breath was a warbling gasp, pitiful and humiliating had anyone been around to hear it. Thankfully, only Jack was in the room, and he looked even more pathetic that Draco felt. Though anger still coursed through him, Draco could at least recognise that. 

Shaking his head, he turned his attention to his fingers and clicked his tongue in distaste. A smattering of bloody cuts smeared his pale skin, some deep enough that they still wept blood. Muttering a string of curses at the insanity of animals, Draco resolutely ignored the merlin as he set to healing himself.

When he finished, fingers tingling warmly and _Scourgify_ -ed clean of blood, Draco turned his attention once more towards Jack. The bird hadn’t moved except to slow slightly in his gasps. His dark eyes glinted unblinkingly at Draco, expressionless as always but somehow seeming to say so much.

Folding his arms across his chest, Draco felt his face fall into a savage scowl. “I should kill you, bird. You’re obviously insane.”

Jack made no response.

“This, _this_ is the reason I hate animals. For absolutely no reason you’ll take a turn and bite the hand that literally feeds you.” No response. “What, was I not fast enough in getting to the window to let you in as per your demands? You were hardly waiting that long, you bloody chicken! And this is my house. You have no reason to complain!”

His anger continued to boil, would have likely risen further, had Jack not chosen that moment to reply. And he did so in a pathetic chirp that Draco had never heard before, a pitiful cheep that was so mournful that it almost sounded apologetic. Sorrow didn’t begin to describe that sound. It was entirely too human.

And despite himself, it somehow swept Draco’s anger aside. Or maybe that was simply his weariness acting upon the fiery emotion. For now that the heat of the moment had died, the attack stemmed and his assailant effectively subdued, tiredness fell upon Draco once more. The events of earlier that evening, of his minimal sleep and nagging thoughts, all seemed far too much to deal with on top of a bipolar merlin.

Sighing, Draco heaved himself to his feet and stepped gingerly towards the bird. Jack’s black eyes followed his progress, but he didn’t move, not even to tuck his wings into his body. Still wary, still on the verge of hexing the bird into oblivion and finally wishing it good riddance, Draco slunk into a crouch.

“What the fuck was that?” He repeated.

Jack cheeped that mournful sound once more. He shifted slightly but otherwise made no response.

Shaking his head, Draco closed his eyes and raised his wandless hand to the bridge of his nose. He swore he felt a headache coming on. “You’re insane. Utterly insane. And I’m insane for letting you in my house every other night.” He cracked one eye open, glaring at the merlin. “You know, most people wouldn’t stand for this.”

Another cheep, less mournful this time. Draco considered it might have even been in agreement.

“I don’t understand you. Are you just going to up and attack me at any given moment now?”

Jack cheeped again, in very definite dissent. Or perhaps that was simply Draco’s wishful thinking. Frowning, he dropped his hand from his face. “Now how can I believe you? I’ve done nothing to deserve such treatment from you; perhaps you’d like the same? Shall I finally lock you out? I do know some very effective Silencing Charms, you know.” Draco resolutely ignored the reasoning that, had he wanted to truly silence the merlin he could have done so a long time ago.

To his utter shock, however, Jack replied. He actually replied, in such a manner that Draco felt his eyebrows positively clamber into his hairline. Shuffling into a nestling pose and finally repositioning his wings, Jack peered Draco directly in the eye and gave a very deliberate shake of his head.

 _No_. The meaning couldn’t be clearer.

It was only when Draco had the presence of mind to realise his mouth had dropped open that he shook himself from his stupor. Clicking his jaw shut he blinked. “You… you’re a smart bird, aren’t you?”

Jack nodded. Draco’s eyes widened further, stunned. Did birds usually do that? He didn’t know, no more than he knew if random attacks upon semi-owners were a routine occurrence. His forehead throbbed, right above his nose in a painful jab; yes, definitely a headache coming on.

“I must be going insane. That, or I’m still dreaming.” That sounded plausible. It certainly made more sense than did anything that had befallen him since he’d awoken. From the avian attack to the conversation of sorts… no, Draco didn’t want to think about it. Surely, _surely_ it would make more sense the next morning. That and everything else, including Animagus and covert Elitist operations.

Surely.

Turning deliberately away from the merlin, not sparing him another glance, Draco made his way back towards his bed. He closed his eyes mid step and kept them shut as he muttered _“Knox”_ , slipped back into his bed, and buried himself firmly beneath his blankets. He’d leave the window open, just in case the apparition of Jack needed to escape, and that would be it.

No more thinking.

Enough.

It was a skill of sorts he’d developed, to deliberately turn his thoughts off. It hadn’t worked earlier that evening, being largely sporadic in nature, but perhaps it was the accumulation of too much confusion at once for his mind seemed to happily accept the welcoming embrace of oblivion.

Just before he drifted off to sleep, Draco could have sworn he felt the light, distinctive tread of avian footsteps creeping up his mattress alongside yet not quite touching his cocooned body. He wasn’t certain, however, and he would _not_ check.

The next morning there was no sign of Jack. It could have truly been a dream for all Draco knew had it not been for the impression of a merlin-sized shape on the pillow beside his own.

~|=|~

The Floo call from Krax came as Draco was preparing breakfast. It would have been earlier than he usually found himself out of bed on a Sunday morning, except that for once, quite irrationally, he’d risen with the sun. Pausing in the act of smearing butter on bread, Draco strode into his living room to the chiming of the Alert Charm.

Krax’s broad, flat face peered up at him through the flames when Draco flicked open the connection. If his eyes were a little sagging and narrowed for lack of sleep, Draco could hardly blame him; the man had likely spent the previous evening becoming thoroughly acquainted with the sweet champagne offered by Our Saint’s Hall.

“Malfoy,” he began by way of greeting. His voice was gravelly and appeared as sleep-deprived as his face.

“Mr Krax. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Don’t play ignorant with me, Malfoy. You’re not stupid, and I’m hardly in the mood for it.” It was a testament to Krax’s said mood, and the earliness of the hour, that he spoke so curtly. Krax was recognised throughout the Ministry at large as being unanimously fair to his employees, and always attempted to be embody the kinder end of the severity spectrum. That morning, however, he appeared positively disgruntled.

Swallowing down the distasteful flavour of unease, Draco inclined his head in acknowledgement. “You refer to my presence at Devon last night?”

“Very perceptive of you, Malfoy.”

“Shall I come through to the Ministry, sir?” Draco strove for calm collectedness. One of them had to be, and Krax still seemed at least partially incapable. 

Krax sniffed in more of a snort than a delicate display of consideration. “I think that might be best. My office, if you would.”

Which was how Draco found himself striding through the atrium of the Ministry at seven o’clock on a Sunday morning. The Ministry was never empty, but given the earliness of the day and the weekend status that saw most people tucked firmly in there beds, it took him trekking through two departments and down two levels before he happened upon more than half a dozen people. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement was similarly a ghost town, with only the figure of a scurrying, vaguely familiar face – Draco thought the young woman was a trainee – breaking up the static stillness. It wasn’t until he turned the last corner into the hallway ending in Krax’s office that he was confronted by someone. 

And that someone was Harry.

Harry looked like he hadn’t had a whole lot of sleep the previous night either. His face was pale, hair even more unkempt than usual, and the slump of his back against the wall, the folding of his arms across his chest as he stood stationed outside Krax’s rooms, bespoke weariness and slight frustration. At what in particular Draco could not quite discern. He was dressed in slightly dishevelled Auror robes, the deep red colour and silver trim of the Elites slightly stained. He looked as though he’d been wearing them for several hours, and Draco had a moment of detached wonder to consider at what point the previous night Harry had changed from his dress robes to his uniform before his attention was captured by Harry’s rising gaze.

He wasn’t happy. That much was evident. Although anything further than that Draco couldn’t discern. Angry? Frustrated? Disappointed? A little sad, maybe? He didn’t get a chance to reach any conclusions, for, as though he’d been waiting just inside the door for Draco’s arrival, Krax poked his head out of his office and immediately beckoned him in. Draco spared only a moment longer of holding Harry’s eyes, keeping his own expression carefully guarded, before slipping past him.

Krax looked even more haggard in person than he did through Floo flames. He, unlike Harry, hadn’t exchanged his dress robes for something more suitable for work, and though they too were stained, it was of a different kind. With an impressive sigh that was echoed by the squeak of his chair, he dropped into sitting. Upon urging, Draco did the same.

“So,” Krax began, folding his hands across the table before him. He regarded Draco thoughtfully, apparently striving once more to assume on his ‘friendly boss’ persona than falling prey to allowing the disgruntlement exhibited that morning to seep through.

Knowing full well that Krax’s silence was not an invitation to speak – he may have only been into the man’s office on a series of remarkably brief situations, and then only in the last year or so, but he knew that much about the man – Draco kept silent. That silence was justified when, with another sigh, Krax continued.

“Why do you do this to me, Malfoy?” Wisely, Draco held his tongue. “As if this situation wasn’t tricky enough, what with the bloody coven cropping up…”

“It’s a coven, then?” Draco couldn’t prevent the words from slipping out, could only press his lips together firmly afterwards.

Krax gave him a flat stare that said he’d pushed him too far. “Don’t take advantage of my leniency, Malfoy,” he said, and Draco mentally supplanted ‘leniency’ with ‘drunkenness’. “That information is classified. Even in the DMLE we keep our operations as exclusive as possible." 

Draco inclined his head in a nod. He’d heard the speech many a time before, both in mocking jest and in utter seriousness. That Law Enforcement operations were to be contained within the bounds of those Aurors and investigators immediately relevant and that any breach in that confidentiality could result in a suspension or even loss of Auror licence. And that those who were granted the gratuitous right to be included would quickly learn the benefits of maintaining such confidentiality. There were those like Harry that disregarded such compunctions on a regular basis – at least when sharing with Draco – but people like him were few and far between. But for most, silence was maintained, or else an employee may find themselves readily and repeatedly assigned to the most boring of rounds on the table. 

Like Scouring. Draco _hating_ chasing the pathetic excuses for Dark magic situations on a Hades reading of less than two. Dark magic was still Dark magic, so had to be followed up, but there was little that was less preferable for an Auror. Even less for an investigator, who had to do all of the legwork before the exalted Field Aurors would even sniff at the situation.

“Of course, Mr Krax. I didn’t mean to assume. I confess that my previous involvement in investigating the history of Dartmoor’s magical incidents left me somewhat intrigued by the situation.”

“That’s what it was, then? Curiosity?” Krax raised an eyebrow. “You took yourself to a potentially dangerous situation out of curiosity?”

Draco maintained the façade of casual aloofness for which the Mafloy’s were once so famed. Surprisingly, Krax never seemed to get annoyed by it. Unlike Lurring, who would develop a very noticeable tick in his right cheek after barely a minute of exposure. Draco loved prodding the spindly man; it was no secret to either of them that they shared little love.

Nodding his head once more, Draco met Krax’s eyes. Krax liked that. He believed in honesty and hardworking attitudes, and direct eye contact suggested at least one of those boxes was ticked. “It was, sir. And I have since seen the error of my ways. I understand that it was a rash decision on my part, especially given that the situation appears to have escalated.” He didn’t need the slight quirk of Krax’s eyebrow to know his words were accurate. “But I do believe I acted impulsively. Call it a product of the evening’s festivities, if you would.”

If Draco had said similar to Lurring, he would have been up for suspension. Even as exemplary and valuable as he was as an investigator, Lurring didn’t take kindly to such casual and underhanded approaches. But Krax? No, Krax appreciated bluntness. Draco could tell as much from the faint guardedness of his expression that gradually faded into acceptance.

With a third sigh in as many minutes, Krax nodded his head. “Very well, Malfoy. I’ll believe you in this one instance. And I’ll let it pass; you weren’t the only one to get into a spot of trouble last night, and at least you weren’t public in your display.”

“Did I perhaps miss a confrontation between Marvough and O’Connelly, sir?”

Krax appeared torn between amusement and frustration. He nodded. “I don’t know what it is, but they set each other off. Blew a hole in the wall with a _Bombarda,_ and that’ll take more than a simple _Reparo_ to fix.” He shook his head. “Bloody idiots.”

Draco nodded consolingly, which Krax seemed to appreciate for he actually gave something of a smile when he continued. “You know what this means, though, Malfoy. I’ve got no other choice.”

Thinning his lips, Draco took a moment to reply. “It’s that serious, sir?”

“It is. The situation is truly becoming… quite an exceptional case.” Krax raised a hand to rub wearily at his forehead. “Without revealing more than necessary, I can say that the operation has become concerning.” He frowned at the distant wall over Draco’s shoulder for a moment, thoughtful, before turning back to him. “So. Which is it, Malfoy? Keep or Forget?”

It was a common turn-a-phrase amongst Aurors and Investigators. More correctly known as the Oath or Obliviate Precautionary Method, it ensured through magical means that confidentiality was maintained in classified operations. And this on the flip side of discovery; one would either provide a binding oath that encouraged muteness and a telling infliction of facial hives and incessant twitches in those that sought to break it, or a fool-proof and highly recommended Obliviate option. Many objected to the masking of thoughts – for who truly wanted their memories tampered with? – but it was often considered preferable due to its temporary nature, being removed after the completion of the relevant operation. In contrast, the Oath was eternally binding. Controversial though the procedure may be to many, it was written into the contract of each and every employee of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement that such repercussions would be instilled when necessary. 

It was a tough call, silence or forgetfulness. Tough for most.

“I know it’s a tough call,” Krax conceded, mirroring Draco’s thoughts. “If you’d like to take a moment, I won’t resent you –“

“Oath, sir.”

It was not, however, a difficult decision for Draco. Face ignorance, with the knowledge that _something_ had been removed from his thoughts, over simply keeping silent on a matter that would largely hold no relevance to most people? There was no question which option he’d choose. The few people he may consider possible conversation partners would have little interest in Dark magic being conducted at the other end of Britain. It was hardly a choice at all, really. Besides, Draco coveted his memory all too much for that.

Krax snorted a chuckle. “Somehow, I think I might have guessed you’d choose that.” Leaning back in his seat, he tugged open a drawer and fumbled around for a few moments before pulling out a sheaf of crinkled papers and a polished white rod of unicorn ivory. An antique, Draco knew; it had been decades since unicorns were poached for their horns, despite the sheer magnitude of magical uses the ivory possessed.

Krax held out one end of the foot-long rod to Draco. From his casualness, both in extricating it from his desk and wielding it, no one would guess that the Oath Rod was one of the most important magical artefacts in the Ministry. Draco knew better. The gesture being self-explanatory enough, he reached out and took the other end.

Glancing down at the papers before him and spreading them with one hand, Krax’s brow crinkled. He skimmed the minute lines of script for a few moments, flipping through the instructional pages – the Oaths apparently varied depending upon the situation at hand – before his face cleared and he settled back in his seat slightly. “Right. Here we go. Erm…” He paused, glancing once more at the papers, before speaking again with a modicum more of formality. “Draco Malfoy, do you swear to breathe not a word to those not of Law Enforcement status pertaining to the events surrounding the operation being conducted at Dartmoor National Park, Devon, as officially initiated by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement on the twelfth of November two thousand and four?”

“I do,” Draco complied. He shivered slightly as a ripple of magic tingled from his gripping fingers along his arm and trickled down his neck.

“Do you swear to breathe not a word of that which you saw, heard, felt or sensed pertaining to the Dark magic operation in Dartmoor National Park, Devon, unless a trio of direct superior should request such from you?" 

“I do,” Draco agreed once more. Of course there was a loophole. Merlin forbid Draco should somehow discover something important and not be able to tell anyone. Although…

“Do you swear to neither write, gesture nor in any other mode of communication, relay information about the situation in Dartmoor National Park, Devon, unless a trio of direct superiors should request such from you?”

And there it was. The final loophole patched up. “I do.” 

As was customary for magical Oaths, with three as the magic number, the ivory rod thrummed for a moment and glowed faintly. Draco felt another tingle of magic shoot up his arm before it faded and all traces of the binding Oath disappeared. He dropped his grasp from the artefact and Krax tossed it – with his continued carelessness – back into his desk drawer.

“Right, that’s it, Malfoy.” Krax slumped back into his chair with another heavy sigh. He seemed rather partial to them that morning, and Draco felt not a hint of guilt with the knowledge that he was at least a small part of the reason for the man’s weariness. It wasn’t Draco’s fault that he’d partaken a little too thoroughly in the previous night’s revelries. Draco refused to feel the slightest iota of remorse. “I’ll write this up now, then. And you,” he raised his eyebrows pointedly and jabbed a finger towards Draco. “You will _not_ do that again. Understand.”

“Perfectly, sir,” Draco replied smoothly. Krax’s attempt at making him feel like a scolded schoolboy fell far short. Draco regretted Apparating to Devon last night but only because of the Oath that now tied his tongue. Learning of an increase in activity of Dark witches and wizards – a coven, apparently – and just as interestingly of the Animagus status of the Elites was definitely worth it. It was the very reason that Draco had pursued a career in the ministry in the first place; he simply wanted to be in the know.

Pansy would be so proud of his knowledge gathering.

Rising to his feet, Draco turned towards the door, aloof expression still affixed. He was in the process of reaching for the door handle when Krax stopped him with a word. “Malfoy, do be sure to talk to Potter on the way through, won’t you? He was rather adamant about being here this morning when I was talking to him. Pretty angry, I’d hazard, especially when Weasley was telling me about you being there.” Krax chuckled behind him. “I hope you’ve said your goodbyes to your loved ones. I’ve seen my fair share of those chewed out by him, mark my words.”

Not even bothering to reply, Draco tugged the door open. He wouldn’t lie; Krax’s words touched him with an itch of dread like the prospect of Keep or Forget couldn’t. Not the thought of Harry being angry with him. Quite the contrary, _that_ thought was almost intoxicating. Nostalgic, yes, but at times Draco almost craved the volatility of their past rivalry. Not in exchange for their amicability, mind, but still.

Yes, intoxicating was a very good word for their bouts of anger. Even in hindsight Draco remembered them being as such. No, what filled Draco with dread was the possibility that Harry might hold it against him indefinitely.

Harry was standing exactly as he had been when Draco had entered Krax’s office. He didn’t even glance Draco’s way when the door clicked shut with a sense of finality. Of privacy. Draco stood silently, waiting. If Harry was still angry, if he felt the need to growl his discontent or yell furiously, Draco wouldn’t put him past doing so immediately. Get it off his chest, out in the open. The walls and doors in the Law Enforcement department were renowned for being soundproof, for whatever reason and even if they weren’t there was hardly anyone around to here him.

But there was nothing. Only silence. And Harry still wouldn’t look at him. That was worse than anything he could have said.

Draco couldn’t help himself. He’d developed quite a thorough restraint for his tongue in recent years, but Harry always seemed to flip his expectations, his rules and practices, on their head. He blurted out the first thing that very definitely _did not_ pass through his head.

“So Weasley’s an Animagus. A _dog_ Animagus.”

Harry finally glanced towards him. Sidelong and otherwise unmoving, but at least he was looking _at_ him. There was a pause. When Harry replied, his voice was low and quiet in a way that Draco had never heard before. “Yes, he is. A red setter." 

“Typical, that he’d be red.”

Harry didn’t reply this time. Even worse, he turned his sidelong attention from Draco to the middle distance before him, as though the dust motes drifting invisibly in the air before him were purely fascinating. Draco hated it. His tongue did, too, and acted for him once more.

“So that would make all of the Elites Animagus? Those two last night, they were as well?”

As soon as the words slipped out, Draco wished he could take them back. Did that count as ‘breathing a word’ of the operation? But… no, apparently not given that he’d actually been able to speak them easily and hadn’t erupted into boils and itching hives. 

But even so, Draco wished he could retract them for the expression they elicited from Harry’s face. He’d hadn’t seen it so closed, so guarded with wariness directed towards _Draco_ , since their schooling days. He hated it. “Why do you ask?”

Draco shrugged with more nonchalance than he could possibly possess when considering his rising discontent. It wasn’t uneasiness and was definitely not panic, but disregard was impossible to attain even so. “Call it simple curiosity. But I’m mostly just interested in what _your_ Animagus form is. Because you have one, aren’t you?”

Harry didn’t answer again. He didn’t glance sideways at Draco, nor give any other indication that he’d heard the question. Those fucking dust motes. Why were they so deserving of Harry’s attention? “Aren’t you?”

This time Harry shrugged. It was a confirmation, if not a particularly open one, and in spite of his rising uneasiness Draco felt satisfied at learning that much. “What are -?”

“Draco.”

That single word stopped Draco’s tongue in its wagging. It was all he could do to maintain a blank expression, let alone nonchalance. Harry turned towards him and his stare was penetrating. “What were you thinking?”

There was silence. A silence more uncomfortable and more desperately in need of being broken than any Draco had ever beheld, but he couldn’t seem to push himself to do it himself. He could see Harry’s expression now, and it caught his voice in his throat.

There was sadness and… and _worry_ on Harry’s face. It was entirely unexpected given the circumstances. To be truthful, Draco had anticipated just about anything else: anger, frustration, disgust, ambivalence, disregard, even amusement. Perhaps Harry would have thought Draco a fool?

And he might have, once upon a time. In that same time that he would have disregarded the actions of his schoolyard rival as stupid and irrelevant to himself. It was an epiphany of sorts to Draco that Harry so obviously no longer felt that way. He’d seen concern on Harry’s face before, but certainly never directed towards him. It left Draco with a complicated mixture of feelings of which he very definitely noted satisfaction and even delight but also a very profound and unfamiliar sense of guilt.

Stoically avoiding showing any hint wariness, that the guilt he felt might be seeping through, Draco tilted his head and regarded Harry. He finally managed to urge speech from his tongue. “You’re not angry.” He paused, struggling to find words. “I’d expected you to be." 

For a long moment Harry didn’t reply. His shoulders remained hunched, his head bowed and expression barely visible. However, after a moment in which Draco was suddenly very grateful that it was a weekend and hence very few people likely to happen upon their confrontation, raised his chin. His face was a complicated mixture of expressions that left Draco at a loss. “No. No, I’m not angry.” He was silent for a moment until a slightly rueful smile overrode all other tautness in his face. “At least, I’m not anymore.”

“You were?”

“Of course,” Harry replied, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. “My friend Apparated to the middle of a potentially dangerous field operation. Why wouldn’t I be worried?" 

“I thought you said angry,” Draco pointed out, struggling internally both with his familiar frustration at the word ‘friend’ and satisfaction at the suggestion to Harry’s worry.

Harry shrugged. “They’re one and the same, aren’t they?”

“They most certainly are not.”

“Well, they are to me,” Harry said, smiling tightly. “At least they are when they concern my friends.”

That blasted ‘friend’ again set Draco’s teeth on edge. Really, he should expect nothing more. It was almost a blessing when compared to the cold shoulder Draco had been receiving, but it still irked him. Soothed his unease, yes, but irritated nonetheless. Pursing his lips, he drew his eyes to the side, to the opposite wall of the hallway. This… this was going to be difficult, but it needed to be done. “I…” He paused to clear his throat. “Well, then, I suppose I… apologise for worrying you.”

The silence that followed was very telling. Draco couldn’t bring himself to turn towards Harry to behold what must be a very profound surprise. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“I heard you apologise,” Harry replied incredulously, his tone already catching slightly with… was that amusement? That was a good thing, wasn’t it? “But I’m sure I must have misheard given it’s coming from you." 

Draco scowled at the door to Milkin’s Office that was positioned directly in his line of sight just down from Krax’s. Such a plain, wooden door had never seemed so desperately in need of his absolute attention. “Is it so difficult to believe that I’d… I’d…" 

“Apologise?”

“Yes, that.” 

Harry snorted with genuine amusement this time. It was an irresistible enough sound that made Draco incapable of suppressing the urge to glance back towards him. He shouldn’t have done it, because Harry’s crooked smile, the way he bit the side of his lip to keep from laughing aloud, the half-inclination of his chin and his dancing eyes peering over the top of his glasses, were criminal in what they did to Draco’s head. It was so different to that complicated expression of moments before as to be almost a different face entirely. He was sure he’d cross oceans for a bare moment of such a smile. 

Infatuated? No, Draco wasn’t infatuated. He was further gone than that.

“I don’t think,” Harry spoke through his bubbling chuckles, “that an apology really suffices, actually."

Draco raised an eyebrow. _Cool. Calm. Remain_ entirely _composed._ “Is that so?”

“Definitely not. Do you know how much of a heart attack I got when I saw you?”

Opening his mouth to reply, Draco paused. Slowly a frown settled upon his brow. “Saw me? What, this morning?”

Harry’s smile wavered slightly before quirking once more in faint confusion. “Yeah, of course. After… Ron told me about last night – Floo called me – and then Krax called this morning and told me about the situation. What did you think I meant?" 

Draco shook his head slowly, shaking off his own confusion and the niggling thought he couldn’t quite hear. “Nothing at all. But that’s hardly important. What is important,” and he took a deliberate step towards Harry so that they were nearly eye to eye, “is the issue of this apology. Insufficient? Pray tell, what, then, would suffice?” 

Harry regarded him silently for a moment, smile playing across his lips as he slowly tilted his head in the other direction. “Why don’t you tell me? I’m sure you could think of something." 

Draco could. He really, really could, and oh, it was so tempting. Harry was unintentionally dangling a very tasty carrot indeed. It was so profound, played such thoughts through Draco’s head, that he would have thought Harry was doing it on purpose if it hadn’t been, well… _Harry_ that was saying it. Though he may have acquired a modicum of cunning since leaving Hogwarts, Draco was certain that anything quite so subtle as dextrous flirtation was beyond his grasp. He was, and always would be, a Gryffindor after all. Gryffindor’s didn’t flirt but resorted to the reflexive “I like you, lets do this!” approach.

Besides, the very fact that Draco wanted it so much was telling. Wishful thinking did things to perspective. 

_But it is so, so tempting…_

Before he could quite help himself, Draco found his mouth speaking for him. “Then perhaps you’d allow me to finally take you up on the offer of sharing drinks one Friday night?”

The surprise on Harry’s face confirmed Draco’s beliefs if not his hopes that he’d been flirting. Eyebrows rising, he blinked at Draco blankly for a moment. “What?”

“Drinks. Were you not of the mind to partake in such an endeavour?” _Dangerous, very dangerous, stop, it would be best to stop –_

“You’d actually go out with me?” Harry’s smile should _definitely_ be illegal. And why did he have to choose those words expressly?

Raising a hand to peer nonchalantly at his fingernails, Draco raised one shoulder in a shrug. “I wouldn’t force you if you were so disinclined, but –“ 

“No! No, it’s not that. I’m just surprised.” There was something akin to adolescent excitement in Harry’s tone. Another flicker of guilt unexpectedly prodded at Draco; was he so eager to simply share drinks? Draco almost wished he’d suggested it beforehand if it meant so much to him. And that in itself was saying something; Draco didn’t like doing things for other people. “It’s just… you’ve always been so resistant to my suggestions, I thought maybe you were, I don’t know, teetotaller or something?"

“Teetotaller? Really?” Draco smirked. “Big words, Harry.”

“Shove off,” Harry grinned. His good humour appeared to have returned exceptionally fast.

Draco shrugged, smirking himself. “It’s not that I don’t drink. I simply object to the venue.”

“The Charming?”

“Disgustingly benevolent. It hosts far too many upstanding clients,” Draco sniffed. Harry laughed again. “That, and the choice of companionship.”

“You really don’t like spending time with your colleagues, do you?”

“I believe that statement answers itself.”

“You know, everyone thinks of you as the silent ghost of the department. Your closed-lipped approach to communication has become quite infamous.”

Fighting to suppress a smile of satisfaction, Draco raised an eyebrow. “The silent ghost? How utterly ridiculous.”

“Well, it’s sort of true,” Harry said, still seeming on the verge of laughter. “You don’t really talk to anyone. I mean, at all.”

“I talk to you,” Draco pointed out.

Harry paused, and another strangely expression crossed his face. Different this time to that of moments before but still unreadable. “Yes, you do. Why is that?”

Not deigning to – or admittedly avoiding – reply, Draco turned his regard once more to Milkin’s door. “Is that a yes to Friday or not?”

Harry chuckled. His good mood was catching, remarkably jovial considering he’d seemed most upset all of ten minutes before. “Definitely. Not this Friday, I’m sorry, what with Christmas and all, and pulling duty –“

“Pertaining to… last night?”

“It’s classified, Draco. Didn’t you get that impression from Krax’s interrogation? We’re keeping that operation tightly under wraps from now on. Even I am.” Harry paused, frowning in something that was more amused than reprimanding. “And you just made a bloody Oath!”

“Ah, yes, of course.” Which meant Draco had hit the truth exactly.

“But maybe the Friday after? If you can?”

“Hmm…” Draco pondered, pursing his lips as though he were actually considering. As though, even at Christmas time – or perhaps especially at Christmas time – there was anywhere in the world he’d rather be than with Harry and only Harry. The only other individual vying for his attention was Jack and, well… after the incident last night, perhaps the merlin needed a bit of a dressing down. He still hadn’t decided how he felt about the bird anymore. Maybe it would do him some good to have to wait on Draco’s beck and call for once. “Yes, I do believe that two Friday’s from now will be quite suitable.”

Harry beamed at him when Draco turned his full attention towards him once more. As though he’d been waiting to do so since Draco had turned away. Draco immediately regretted not turning back to him sooner. “Great. Fantastic. I’ll just ask –“

“Potter, if you even think to ask Weasley along, I’m standing you up.”

Harry laughed. “That wasn’t actually what I was going to say, but I’ll keep it in mind. I was going to say I’d ask my acquaintance at the Falcon’s Nest if he could reserve us a table.”

“The Falcon’s Nest?” An acquaintance? What did _that_ mean? Who was this acquaintance? How did Harry know him? Draco immediately found himself assaulted by unanswerable questions and had to smother them firmly. Harry was sure to have friends that Draco didn’t know. There was nothing wrong with that. He thanked not for the first time that morning that he was a master of schooling his expression; his few slip ups already would have undoubtedly been far worse otherwise.

Harry nodded. “Yeah, he owns the place.”

“Of course he does. And of course you’d know him.”

Harry smirked. “No need to be a grippe.”

“I’m not being a… a _grippe_ ,” Draco refuted. Grippe?

“If you’ve got a problem with the Falcon’s Nest, we can just go somewhere else. I know some people have a bit of an… issue with it.”

 _I couldn’t fathom why,_ Draco thought, recalling Theodore’s description, but he kept the thought to himself. He wouldn’t be able to mask the sarcasm if he hadn’t. Shrugging with the nonchalance he’d worn at several times throughout the evening, he nodded. “It hardly matters to me the venue.”

“So long as it’s not the Charming.”

“So long as it’s not the Charming,” Draco agreed.

“So picky,” Harry tutted. He sounded remarkably like Pansy when he did that, and Draco couldn’t help but frown uneasily. “Alright then. Looking forward to it.”

“Indeed,” Draco said and, following in Harry’s footsteps they made their way to the Floo ports. Harry appeared to have recovered from his disgruntlement remarkably, and Draco soon found himself engaged in a most confusing discussion in which Harry referred to what had been discovered the past night without specifying any specifics whatsoever. So much for ‘keeping it classified’; Harry seemed unable to do so, at least when talking to Draco. The thought was as confusing as it was satisfying. Draco was so thoroughly distracted that he didn’t realise he’d completely neglected the topic of Harry’s Animagus form until he was strolling down snow-laden Wanderer Lane.

Well, there would always be another time. A whole night of another time, Draco thought with a surfacing smile of satisfaction. Truly, he should have made that step much sooner. Even if it would amount to nothing, even if Harry were too obliviously straight to realise Draco flirted with him, it was an opportunity that simply could not be missed.


	8. Up To A Point

The following weeks leading up to and then succeeding Christmas would have to be, Draco would admit, some of the best days he’d had in a long time. For a number of reasons, despite his brief confrontation with the Keep or Forget and Harry’s almost-anger, he found himself to be quite… happy. 

Foremost yet in many ways most trivially was his latest investigatory work. The very day following his meeting with Krax, Draco was called into Lurring’s office and assigned to a new case. That in itself was unexpected, given that unless a critical situation arose, transfers rarely occurred so close to Christmas. Draco considered, however, that Lurring saw it as a punishment of sorts; far be it from the exciting and engrossing missions of some of the more high-impact operations, that which he was assigned to was nothing if not sedate. Boring, even.

Except it wasn’t to Draco. Malicious brewing of potentially explosive potions just outside of Kent? He could hardly ask for something more suited to his area of expertise and interest. Draco had been in his schooling days, and remained to that day, fond of potions. More than that, he was good at brewing. Knowledge pertaining to such an area just seemed more easily retained. So Lurring’s supposed punishment? It was hardly a punishment at all. Especially seeing as the investigators Draco was set to work alongside, even their assigned Director of Investigations, were less knowledgeable than he. There were few things Draco enjoyed more than silently and efficiently both proving his superior knowledge and disproving the fumbling attempts of his colleagues.

The second favourable exception to his Christmas seasons arose on the first day of his three-day break for festivities. As was regular for Christmas, Draco accompanied his mother to visit his father in Azkaban. Many would perhaps see such a visit as a sorry affair; saddening and stressful if nothing else. Draco had never really liked it, and not only because he’d never quite been able to conjure a protective Patronus. Such an inability made such visits just that much more taxing.

Not to Draco. He didn’t feel much of anything anymore for his father’s circumstances, and a lot of that had to do with the fact that Lucius Malfoy was no longer all there. Never a strong man, he’d fallen prey to the effects of the dementors within the first year of his twenty year imprisonment. Visiting him was like visiting a ghost of the man he had once been, and over the years Draco was gradually becoming less able to remember just who that man had been. Lucius barely even registered their presence upon visiting, which was the biggest part of the reason that Draco and Narcissa rarely visited outside of their annual Christmas trip nowadays.

That year, the visit was not favourable due to any particular change on Lucius’ front. If anything, Draco could hardly tell the difference between the man he’d seen twelve months before and that which hunkered listlessly in his chair before him that year, head bowed and not even raising his gaze to peer through the bars of his cell upon their arrival. He was perhaps a little thinner, if possible, his hair a little more lacklustre and the glassiness of his eyes slightly more pronounced. All were characteristics of a victim of dementor effects on the road to never returning. It was a sorry state.

Yet Draco couldn’t quite bring himself to feel sad. That ship had sailed years ago, when he’d shed his last tears for his father’s fate in the wee hours of the morning before resolutely resolving to spare no more. Nothing could be done and that was that.

What was exceptional about the visit was Narcissa. Draco’s mother had become a quiet woman over the years. Almost a ghost herself, she spent more time silent and drifting around her modest house in the Wizarding reserve for war victims and families than actively participating in life. Introverted didn’t even begin to cover her state; she hopped from menial task to trivial hobby and temporary interests like a bumblebee wafting between flowers, and left most of them half unfinished.

On the morning of Christmas Eve, however, as they visited Azkaban, she seemed markedly more aware of her surroundings than usual. Enough that, when they stepped into the dark, dank and cold walls of the prison, her face immediately scrunched into a semblance of distaste and she even went so far as to openly profess her inclination to be away from the site. Such an inclination didn’t dampen in the slightest upon seeing her listless husband. Like Draco, Narcissa had hardened herself to Lucius’ fate. They’d moved on, not so much because they wanted to but because they had to. There was not even a flicker of pity in her eyes as she gazed upon the man’s bowed head.

Within minutes of arriving, Narcissa turned to Draco. “Well, this is abominably disagreeable. Hardly a way to spend Christmas Eve. Shall we away?” And just like that, for the first time in years, Draco and Narcissa left to spend the day before Christmas away from one of the darkest recesses in the Wizarding world.

Many would think them hard-hearted, Draco knew. He knew that Theodore didn’t entirely approve of his disregard for his father, that Blaise was ambivalent, Daphne vehemently approved and Millicent claimed she did while hiding her unease. He didn’t really care what any of them though, however. It was not the Malfoy way to dwell on the past. Such an approach would only handicap future progression, would only chain him in stasis and regret rather than allowing him to clamber his way from the well of darkness and back into the potentially fruitful light.

Draco had never been overly fond of darkness.

Their Christmas Eve, and their Christmas for that matter, was spent first dining at the Parlour, one of the richest and most competitive restaurants in Wizarding Britain, and then retreating to Narcissa’s house to do nothing save relax and revel in the peace of solidarity. The now completed labyrinth around her house only added to the effect, creating a thick wall of interlocked, two meter hedges twice as long as the path leading up to the door. One could only manage to successfully glimpse over the hedging when in the single upstairs guestroom. Narcissa never went up there, though; Draco suspected she quite liked the sense of isolation the hedging afforded.

Well, it was peaceful until mid-morning on Christmas day with the arrival of Pansy, Blaise and Gregory. Unfortunately for Draco, he hadn’t been able to shake their persistent pleas to flee to his doorstep rather than spend yuletide with their own families. Or at least Pansy and Blaise fled. Greg seemed to simply assume that he was invited, and Narcissa’s usual yet still surprisingly warm welcome of him did little to dissuade his beliefs.

Yet, even with the tiresome assault of his friends, Draco found he experienced a remarkably jovial Christmas. Or at least as jovial as he tended to allow celebratory circumstances. His good humour was only heightened by the knowledge that Millicent, abandoner of the ball that she was, had been roped into attending the formal festivities of her extended family. That in itself was satisfying enough; unlike Millicent, the Bulstrode family was remarkably enthusiastic for commercial holiday seasons, with their parties usually ending up in the papers at least twice a year. Even more satisfying were Pansy’s smirking reminder that Millicent had been required to bring an escort or else have one of her cousin’s act in such a role for the duration of the celebration. She hadn’t brought anyone – all of her friends had delightedly denied her desperate invitations that rapidly descended into threats – and the thought of a puppy-like, enthusiastic attendant tickled Draco fancy wonderfully.

It detracted from the aching shortness of his holiday period, at least, but then he could hardly complain. Dark witches and wizards didn’t pause in their antics for the festive season. If anything, it seemed to entice them to act up all the more.

The third positive point was Jack. Draco was surprised to realise that the bird’s unexpected mania sat upon him so heavily. He wouldn’t have anticipated it to be of any particular consequence to himself; Jack was, after all, just a bird.

But that Friday, when Jack didn’t arrive and demand entry into Draco’s house with his usual tap to the window, Draco found himself oddly… saddened. It was pathetic, really, to find himself put out by being stood up by a bird, but he couldn’t quite hold off the melancholy that settled upon him as he sat at his dining table with a half-eaten tray of meatballs and pasta and listened to the echoing silence that was the absence of knocking beak on glass.

By twelve o’clock that night, Draco had to face the reality that Jack wasn’t coming. That whatever insanity had shaken him had coloured any semblance of fondness the merlin might have held for him. If birds could feel fondness, that was. Draco didn’t really know if he even wanted the bird to return in the first place; he could still feel the painful searing, the thin slicing of talons into his fingers and the fear that those slices would slip through his inadequate defences and claw out an eye. Could birds go rabid? Was that what had happened?

Was Jack sick? Was _that_ what had happened?

If the merlin was rabid – or sick, or… or simply insane – Draco wasn’t entirely sure he wanted him around. Their clash had only reaffirmed his preconceived conception that all animals were crazy, they all hated him, and he would be a right fool to attempt to approach any of them, even those who seemed tame. Perhaps especially those who seemed tame; they were probably doing it to trick him in the first place.

Still, quite without realising it, as he drifted towards his bed, _Knox_ -ing out lights as he went, Draco couldn’t help but pause at the window to his bedroom and flick open the curtains. Just to check.

And there was Jack.

He hadn’t tapped on the window. He looked frozen, more like a statue than a bird and colourless in the darkness of night and light snowfall. Neck tucked and wings hunched like a little, bowed old man, even through the gloom Draco thought he looked miserable. And when Draco’s _Lumos_ illuminated his flat black eyes, that misery very definitely resembled something bordering on sheepish remorse. 

Slowly, cautiously, Draco slid the window open. Jack didn’t move, staring unblinkingly up at Draco. His only motion was to tuck his head slightly, in a little bow that seemed almost submissive. Except that Jack was hardly submissive. If history dictated anything, it was that the bird knew what he wanted and would demand it to the death. Memories of a shrieking bird flapping about his house, revelling in his sense of entitlement, seemed starkly juxtaposed to the silent, mournful creature on Draco’s windowsill. It seemed so… wrong.

Clicking his tongue, Draco folded his arms and regarded the little bird with a frown. “What are you doing?”

Jack didn’t reply. Or if he did, it was only to tuck his head even more firmly.

Sighing, Draco took a step back and to the side, sweeping an inviting hand into his bedroom. “Well? Are you going to sit there all night or are you going to come in? It’s cold outside, in case you haven’t noticed. I’d rather not turn my house into an ice brick, thank you."

Jack cocked his head slightly. He seemed curious, almost… surprised? Did birds get surprised? Maybe Draco was just projecting again. He was very aware of the fact that he was indeed talking to a bird, a bird who wasn’t even replying with the linguistic capabilities of a parrot, and that such conversations were hardly much better than those conducted by the schizophrenic to themselves. He chose to ignore that reality.

“You didn’t even knock. How was I supposed to know you were there if you don’t knock?” Jack tilted his head back the other way and Draco clicked his tongue in frustration. “Look, if you’re going to come in, hurry up already. I’m shutting the window if you don’t.” 

Whether it was Jack somehow understanding Draco’s words or simply a flight of his own fancy, decisiveness finally took hold of him once more. The merlin shuffled forwards in a near silent flutter of wings and flapped across the room to perch daintily on the back of Draco’s desk chair. Not, Draco noticed detachedly, on his desk and the piles of papers strewn across it. Perhaps Jack was learning? Or maybe he truly did feel remorseful rather than his usual objectionable?

Closing the window, and trying very hard not to let the unexpected upwelling of relief at the merlin’s presence show, Draco sniffed and made his way to his bed. “There’s some leftovers on the dining room table. Don’t make a mess.” And, without glancing towards the bird to determine if Jack understood that too, he folded himself into bed. There was a chittering “ki-ki-ki-ki-kee” from across the room and another flutter of feathers, but Draco determinedly ignored them. Jack could do whatever he liked; Draco had already spared enough headspace for him that night.

He tried not to let it effect him when, come morning, the merlin was still nested on the pillow beside his head. Nor when, a full three times that following week, Jack arrived and tentatively – tentatively? – knocked in a request for entry on Draco’s window. Rabid or insane though the bird may have briefly been, apparently whatever had gripped him had also instilled a mounting loyalty. Draco didn’t know how he felt about that. Or at least, he tried not to acknowledge the strange warmth that settled upon him every time the thoroughly irritating rapping on his bedroom window rung through the house. He should have been angry, repelled by the bird after his attack. He couldn’t fathom why he couldn’t even grasp such deterrence.

Placing Jack’s rekindled affection alongside Harry’s heightened companionability left Draco feeling positively popular with his wealth of not-quite-friends. That was the final cherry on top of his Christmas sundae. For despite the fact that Harry claimed he was still angry at Draco, still worried by his apparent foolishness and inclination towards self-destruction, their relationship in the weeks approaching the upcoming Friday Night positively blossomed.

That, Draco rationalised, was probably the element of the Christmas season that Draco found the most rewarding. He wasn’t oblivious enough, not determinedly ignorant enough, to ignore what stared him right in the face. He was certainly not as oblivious as Harry was.

Chats in the hallway lasted at times up to minutes, and just as often as not regarded topics pertaining to that which was very much not work.

Almost every evening, Draco found himself trekking through the floors of the Ministry by Harry’s side, simply to be in his company for a few more minutes of the day. He could never quite decide whether it was happenstance that found them leaving together or if Draco actively sought Harry’s company out, but he was grateful for the moments.

Harry had taken to pausing for a chat when he passed Draco’s office, and Draco, hesitantly at first, began to do the same. When he felt the urge to trek all the way into the Field Auror’s sector, that was. The Thursday before their short holiday for Christmas found Weasley actually seeking Harry out when they’d become too engrossed in a debate of the usefulness of charmed leather over dragon hide for protective purposes, the subject of which Draco could fathom neither where it had arisen from nor why they both found it so interesting. Suffice to say he enjoyed it nonetheless, even more so for the vexation Weasley failed to hide and the smile of farewell Harry gifted him with.

Even better than that was the gift that Harry gave Draco on the Friday before Christmas with the words “Merry Christmas. I figured since I was giving something to all my friends…”. Draco felt only an instant of guilt that he hadn’t considered purchasing anything for Harry in return before Harry, shuffling awkwardly, had wished him farewell and disappeared into the Floo. Draco had waited until getting home to open the red and green box and had been left with a somewhat confusing mixture of emotions for what he unearthed.

Chelsea buns. A half dozen of them all individually wrapped in clear cellophane and glistening with glaze and drizzled white icing. It would have seemed random, unexpected, and completely irrational as a Christmas gift. Except that Draco loved Chelsea buns. There were few foods on earth, if any, that he’d rather partake of. That Harry had known to gift it to him… Had Draco told him he liked them? He must have, but that Harry had remembered was….

Harry truly went above and beyond for his friends. Draco almost made himself depressed to think of what he gifted to Weasley and Granger, to the Weaslette, who were his _real_ friends. The Chelsea buns were delicious, however, and worked wonders on his potentially brooding mood. Even Jack seemed to think so, picking at a morsel like a sparrow at worms when Draco finished of the last of them half a week later.

That reality, and the steady, euphoric and entirely nerve-racking approach of Friday Night with Harry, would in itself have made Draco’s Christmas. On top of everything else it was as near to perfect as he could approach. The only blemish on the scene was the Oath, the increasingly exceptional situation in Devon, and Draco very obvious exclusion from it all.

It was to be expected really, given that he’d sworn an oath on the Oath Rod that effectively rendered him useless in any investigatory role, regardless of the fact that he knew with no hint of arrogance – it was simple fact, after all – that he was one of the best in the department. That any assistance he could render would need to be extricated like a buried splinter by the combined efforts of three superiors made his involvement far too much trouble for the benefits he could afford. Draco wondered if Krax regretted the decision he’d made, but didn’t even consider asking. There were some boundaries he knew better than to cross.

His exclusion wouldn’t have bothered him so much in most any other situation, except for two key features. One, that the situation in Dartmoor was becoming increasingly complex, intricate and delightfully significant, and Draco wasn’t allowed any of it. And two, that Harry was a deeply embroiled participant in that situation, and Draco wasn’t allowed any of it.

It was almost a revisit to the jealousy of his schooling days, though this time coming from an entirely different perspective.

Draco was excluded from the situation. That much vexed him. So, in an attempt to alleviate his irritation, he focused on the one aspect that he’d circumstantially discovered he was able to discuss. The fact that the Elites were Animagus.

 _That_ was intriguing.

Unfortunately for Draco, in the scant amount of spare time he had in the office, he’d unearthed little to nothing that could further his knowledge on the subject. To say that the Animagus status of the Elites was classified was an understatement. He could find _nothing_. Even using Pansy’s connections, expressly those linked directly to the Animagus Licensing Approval sub-department, unearthed nothing. No records whatsoever. His attempts at extricating anything further from Harry had similarly amounted to nothing; Harry demonstrated a remarkable skill in dextrously and subtly diverting the conversation when Draco attempted to pursue it, or simply smiling and very obviously and deliberately once more diverting the conversation.

No, intriguing didn’t even begin to cover it. Draco found the need to know nag at him like a persistent itch. He’d found himself on more than one occasion grumbling to Jack about his predicament, and hadn’t the care to stop himself, even knowing as he muttered that asking questions of the merlin would amount to nothing. Jack, for his part, seemed to find it amusing. The clucking chitters he replied with sounded very much like laughter.

By Boxing Day, Draco had reached his limit. He resorted, with much hesitancy, to requesting the direct assistance of the one person who could route out just about any secret. The rumour leech herself. And it wasn’t Pansy.

Daphne Greengrass’ personal estate was nearly as large as Malfoy Manor. She’d owned it outright since she was seventeen, and it had been awaiting her whims empty and immaculate except for the dutiful house elves since her birth. Unlike most of Draco’s friends, she’d denied the rebellious flair for independence that urged them all to find their own slightly less extravagant homes when graduating from Hogwarts; Daphne had no hesitancy in indulging herself.

Honestly, Draco couldn’t blame her. The house was gorgeous, and carried not even a hint of the taint of the war. Why wouldn’t she embrace it?

That was how, on Monday morning at exactly ten fifty-one, Draco found himself seated in Daphne’s parlour and sipping tea while the slight blonde woman affixed him with a calculating stare.

Contrary to popular public belief, Daphne could talk. It was simply that she chose not to. Theodore was more than happy to act as her mouthpiece, and Daphne appeared to find no dispute in allowing him to fulfil such a role. When she was alone, without anyone to fob redundant or inconsequential questions onto, she did indeed speak. Many found, after such conversations, that her use of a mouthpiece was a blessing in disguise. The reality of her personality hit Draco surprisingly hard at every confrontation, even after so many years. 

“Really, Draco?”

Sipping his too-bitter tea and refusing to flinch at the whip-crack of Daphne’s quiet voice, Draco forced himself to shrug. “It’s simply a curiosity. Nothing particularly strenuous. If you don’t feel inclined, I won’t push it.”

Daphne’s eyes narrowed dangerously. If Pansy was a stalking lioness, Daphne was a viper, through and through. An aggressive one at that, and not partial to provocation. “You’re asking for me to use my connections for one of your passing fancies?” 

“Yes.”

“You dare to ask me, without offering anything of worth in return, for my assistance?" 

“Yes.” 

“And you’re well aware that I have every right to make a demand of you in return? For this… curiosity of yours?”

“Yes?” Draco was very aware that his reply sounded more like a question than an agreement. He sipped hastily at his tea once more. It didn’t taste any better for being drunk quickly.

Daphne regarded him with eyes narrowed to slits. She was a veritable hypnotist with that stare, and could very well scare anybody she desired into spilling their innermost secrets to her. It was likely what made her one of the best journalists in Europe; unlike Pansy and her column in Witch Weekly, Daphne unearthed the truly delectable rumours. The facts that had been buried for years and people had died to protect, the stories that would destroy families and bankrupt the wealthy. And Daphne wafted those stories into the open, only ever restraining herself for just the right incentive.

Dangerous? Yes, Daphne was a very dangerous woman. One would never pick it to look at her pretty, silent countenance, eyes typically downcast and face devoid of expression.

There was an increasingly painful pause that suspended in the air. Draco was just beginning to experience the intense urge to jump to his feet and make a hasty departure from certain death when Daphne spoke. “I knew there was a reason I liked you, Draco. You’ve got balls.”

It took a moment for the words to register. When they did, Draco released a faintly shuddering sigh of relief. It was a struggle to keep it hidden from Daphne, and even when he’d regained his composure he wasn’t certain that he’d adequately managed it. “Thank you, Daphne.”

“What is it exactly that you want me to find?” Out of nowhere, Daphne conjured a Self-Refilling Quill and parchment and settled herself more comfortably into her seat. She didn’t look any less intimidating for it. If anything, the impression Draco was left with was nothing if not a coiled serpent, eyes peeled and fixed upon its dinner as said meal edged unwittingly closer.

Placing his teacup deliberately back in its saucer, Draco sniffed. “The Elites. I want any and everything you can find, but particularly that pertaining to potential Animagus forms.”

Daphne glanced up from the parchment she’d elegantly dotted with shorthand. “You have reason to believe they are Animagus.” It wasn’t a question.

Draco inclined his head. “I trust you know to keep your tongue held.”

“Of course. For a price.”

“Naturally. And what is that price?”

“All in good time, Draco. I never rush into decisions.” The slight curl of Daphne’s lips was terrifying. Draco knew from past experience that he would most likely regret seeking Daphne’s aid; she more often than not held onto such favours for years, recalling them once more at the most inopportune moments. “Anything else? Any relevant details to be noted in particular?”

“I trust your judgement on the matter,” Draco said. Daphne tipped her head in acknowledgement and scrawled for far longer than would have seemed necessary given his statement. He wondered if she did it to unhinge him; she certainly almost succeeded if that had been her intention.

Which was how, on Thursday evening, the night before his not-date with Harry, Draco received a bundle of papers, notebooks and photographs from the straining clutches of Daphne’s Great Horned owl. It was an impressive parcel to say the least, and that evening Draco learned far more about the Elites than he’d ever held any desire to know beforehand.

Like the fact that there were thirteen of them – the magic number, naturally – but that number had been whittled down from fifteen when two over-enthusiastic hopefuls proved ‘unfitting’. The file on that situation didn’t specify as to the nature of how they didn’t quite fit.

He learned more about the families and livelihoods of the six witches and seven wizards than he’d had any inclination of knowing. The name ‘Weasley’ cropped up far too much for his liking.

He gained a chronological history of their operations and exploits in dribs and drabs, some of which he’d already known and some that he hadn’t. Those few had remarkably little on the relevant matter.

Which was the main problem, really. Like holes in a crocheted blanket, the story of the Elites as a whole was very definitely missing key elements. The results of a number of operations, mostly those that Draco hadn’t already known, were some of them. It would appear that, like Draco, Daphne’s sources were only afforded a very censored version of events. Very censored indeed.

That, and the very distinct lack of reference to Animagus forms. It was all the more frustrating because Draco knew – _knew_ – that those forms existed, and yet even Daphne had been unable to unearth more than a whisper of those forms. There was reference to Norma Wixen, with a detailed outline of her Animagus form. She’d long since been publicly recognised for the dainty white mare guise that she could assume, however. And then there was the speculation over Heath Harley; was he a snake, a frog or a rat? How anyone could possibly mistake one for another given the involved animals was beyond Draco, so he could only conclude that the speculation around Harley’s form was purely that: speculation. 

It obviously frustrated Daphne, at least as much as it did Draco as he muttered and cursed his way through the pages. He could tell by the use of red ink, as well as the deeper than necessary scratchings of quill on parchment as she notated and circled. On several instances the quill had poked holes in that parchment. Daphne hated being left in the dark even more than Draco did. She likely took it as a personal slight that she was unable to find the information Draco requested.

There were some references, however, that Daphne and hence Draco found of interest. Words in newspaper articles, subtle suggestions that, when looked at with the knowledge of the transfiguration capacities of the Elites, could be tongue wagging.

“The Wild Hunt Runs Again,” was one such heading that drew a smirk on Draco’s lips. The words “running like a pack of wolves’ or ‘descending like birds of prey’ were others. The metaphors and euphemisms seemed to crop up more and more the further Draco looked, and he just had to wonder… maybe he wasn’t the only one who had stumbled across this secret, yet maintained its secrecy.

Draco knew he was being uncharacteristically persistent with the case. The Elites had never truly interested him at all past the fact that Harry was a part – and the captain – of the squad. But he simply couldn’t help himself. Excluded as he was from the operation in Devon, it was almost a physical need with which he pursued the knowledge.

That, and his attempts to rationalise to himself that Harry – Merlin, that _Weasley_ – was an Animagus. That would take a while to sink in still. Harry may have been an exceptional wizard, but Draco never would have expected him to be capable of such a delicate and complex form of magic. He certainly hadn’t expected as much from Weasley.

Thursday night, as he set down the final photographs Daphne had sent him upon his desk, Draco set himself the task: tomorrow night, he would pull at least that secret from Harry’s lips. Dammit, he would get _something_ he desired out of the following night, even if he had to drag it to light with his teeth.

~|=|~

The Alarm Charm jolted Draco with surprise, vibrating the wand in his pocket like a nervously quivering mouse. Blinking at his reflection in the mirror in surprise, he drew his fob watch from his pocket and peered at it. Nine o’clock.

He’d spent nearly two hours readying himself.

He hadn’t taken that long since his schooling days.

Pausing for only an instant more to run one more finger across the smooth perfection of his hair, Draco nodded, satisfied, and turned to leave. He cleaned up nicely, he knew. His newest pair of casual yet upstanding dress robes were tailored to fit perfectly, his dragon hide boots buffered to a matte shine. His hair was groomed immaculately and fingernails clipped and polished. There was truly nothing save a quick Breath Refreshing Charm that he had left to do for himself to reach utter perfection.

Draco had no idea why he felt nervous.

Pausing only to draw a thick cloak around his shoulders, he stepped from his front door into the night, heading in rapid strides to the Smittson’s View Apparation point. The cloak held the duel function of both repelling the persistent cold of mid-winter and concealing his very non-Muggle attire from curious and ignorant onlookers. Besides, it matched his boots perfectly.

Harry had given Draco the coordinates to the Apparation point nearest the Falcon’s Nest earlier that afternoon. They’d found themselves once more departing from the office side by side, sharing companionship that they’d been devoid of for the past few days due to the weight of ‘covert’ operations on their shoulders. Harry’s particularly – Draco had barely seen a glimpse of him as he nearly ran between offices – but also on Draco’s. To his delight, the malicious brewer had proved to be more slippery, his roots embedded far deeper, than anyone had expected. A long string of unsolved black market exchanges were in the process of being examined for his involvement. Draco loved every second of it.

Pausing at the Floos, Harry had spared Draco only a moment’s nod and confirmation to “meet at nine?” before disappearing into the flaring flames.

Draco had stepped through directly after. From the moment he reached his front door, he found himself functioning mechanically, running through his readying routine with barely an inkling of awareness. Which was why, two hours later, he’d been surprised at just how much time it had taken him. Apparently his subconsciousness was similarly finicky when it came to readying himself for a night out. 

With Harry.

The point Draco Apparated to, in the middle of Griffin Street, was similarly in the middle of Wizarding Britain. That in itself was a benefit; he often found it incredibly tedious, the need to accommodate Muggle awareness as he Apparated around London. Over the years, Draco had been forced to re-evaluate his prejudices against Muggles and Muggleborns – though due more to necessity than any particular desire – and the distasteful lather that had once coated his tongue at even the thought of the magic-less dregs of society now no longer arose. Some were competent, to a degree. Some. 

But even so, he had always and would always feel more comfortable away from Muggles. The only reason he’d chosen to secrete himself in Smittson’s View was because, by and large, he felt more comfortable away from wizards, too. At least Muggles didn’t know him by sight.

The Falcon’s Nest was the hub of the street. That in itself was remarkable given what Theodore had told him of the establishment as well as its newness. But despite being only young, it was definitely the most popular of the half-dozen clubs along the street. A long, winding line trailed from the door, a column of fidgeting, chattering and laughing witches and wizards that didn’t seem to begrudge the lengthy wait. Draco by-passed them all to take himself to the very front of the line.

“I’m here with Harry Potter,” he murmured to the burly bouncer that intercepted him with folding arms. “Draco Malfoy.”

The tall, heavyset wizard regarded Draco for a moment before inclining his head and stepping aside, allowing entry through the double doors of the club. Because really, who didn’t at least vaguely know what Draco Malfoy looked like? And who in the world would want to impersonate him?

The Falcon’s Nest was unlike any club Draco had ever been in. Mostly, this was because the majority of the space within appeared nothing much like a club at all. A large building, the far end was consumed by a dance lined by pews for the weak kneed after too long under the lazily swirling overhead lights. The resounding notes of a smooth record player throbbed music onto a scattering of dancers that appeared nothing if not entirely removed from the world at large. That was fairly typical, even if the music was a little alternate.

There was a bar, too, situated along the wall between the front door and the dance floor. A trio of bar tenders shook and poured and shot mixing charms at colourful concoctions before palming them off into the waiting hands of their clients. That too was typical.

What was not typical was the calm and hushed restaurant three-quarters filled with quiet diners chewing sedately upon aromatic, exquisitely colourful dishes. Unconventional too was the modest, pristine stage and podium just to the side of it, outfitted more for a lecturer or political speaker than for a band. Surprising was the spiral stairwells in each corner that lead up to a bird’s nests of booths that overlooked the floor below.

As Draco stepped through the entrance, he peered around himself with barely concealed interest. He was not one to visit clubs on general principle, but he had to admit that after Theodore’s acclamation and Daphne’s silent approval he had been interested. His expectations hadn’t quite prepared him for what he would find, however. Not the layout or the mystical scenery scene that painted the walls and swayed slightly as though in a breeze. The fluttering of wraith-like bird conjurations overhead created vibrant spots of sparkling light on the otherwise night-dark roof scene, and the trills of said birds could just be heard beneath the playing record.

Mystical was a very good word to describe the Falcon’s Nest. And though Draco had never seen himself as one to appreciate such fancies in the past, he could certainly see the appeal. It was quite… calming. Unexpected, given what the mere presence of the dance floor would otherwise suggest.

It took him several moments to spot Harry. He was secreted in one of the upper story booths, the emptiest of the four and furthest from the bar, and from a distance Draco could see he appeared thoroughly engrossed in something on the dance floor as he idly swirled his drink.

That wouldn’t do at all.

Quashing any lingering feelings of unease – because Draco would not allow himself to feel any; they were entirely irrational feelings anyway – he strode towards the corresponding stairwell and made his way up to the booths. He wove his way silently through the minimal assortment of round tables and matching chairs, refraining from even acknowledging the half-glances of the other patrons, with single-minded focus. Harry noticed him when he was but five steps away, and the smile he afforded him should definitely have been illegal.

“Draco!” He exclaimed, as if he hadn’t been standing less than half a dozen feet away. As if he almost hadn’t expected Draco to come at all, which was entirely ridiculous considering Draco was the one who suggested. He paused in step to offer Harry a raised eyebrow while subtly drinking in the image he made.

Muggle clothes, of course. Harry always wore Muggle clothes unless in work attire or at a formal gathering. Draco found he couldn’t begrudge the drift from stereotypical Wizarding fashion; if anyone could make casual jeans and dark green button-down with sleeves rolled to the elbows look like model material, it would be Harry. It was such a far cry from what had once been a gawkish, awkward adolescent it was obscene.

And maybe that was simply Draco’s personal opinion, but he doubted that given the articles in every other magazine and newspaper on a regular basis. Draco was very satisfied with the fact that he was sure – certain – that he’d been one of the first people in the world to notice. Even as ‘enemies’ in school, Draco hadn’t been oblivious to his appreciation. And that was before he’d even fully accepted his sexuality. When Harry had added to his diminutive height, laid some muscle over his previously scrawny frame, it was almost impossible not to notice.

Unfortunately for Draco, Ginny Weasley had gotten there first. Well, there was the fact that the pair of them supposedly hated each other that too got in the way, but Draco didn’t deign to think about that anymore.

“Do attempt to refrain from overtly expression your jubilation, Harry. People will stare,” Draco said as he stepped once more towards the table and folded himself into a seat.

Harry, his smile slipping none for the reprimand, followed suit. “I’m just happy you actually decided to come. It was touch and go for a while there, I thought. But hey, what do you care for drawing attention? You used to love being in the thick of things in the good old days.”

“The good old days?” Draco arched his eyebrow once more, but his thoughts were instead upon Harry’s other words. _I’m just happy you actually decided to come_. Innocent enough, to a pure mind perhaps, but Draco had never considered himself particularly partial to purity. And if he chose to take them for a thinly veiled euphemism… well, Animagus Harry might be, but Draco doubted he was particularly skilled at Legilimancy. He just couldn’t see it in the Auror Captain.

Harry nodded easily. “You always had your little tag-alongs. Something of an idol in Slytherin, weren’t you?”

“Idol doesn’t begin to cover it,” Draco replied with a modest sniff. It was true. He had indeed been well established in his schooling days, when the Malfoy name had been exalted and respectable. Though stained by the war, that name still encouraged respect in the right circles, more than the forced amicability of society as a whole, but Draco hardly revelled in it. Avoided it, more correctly. How times had changed.

“Would you like a drink?” Harry broke into his thoughts. Draco drew his attention to the folded menu propped in the middle of the table. “You tap your choice with your wand and they’ll bring it up.”

“I would expect no less,” Draco replied, reaching for the menu.

“You’re a real snob, you know that?”

“I do try.”

Ordering a regular Firewhisky, because Draco was traditional like that, he settled himself into the ambiance of the scene. Within moments, quite without his realisation, Harry had drawn him into conversation and any lingering nervousness faded into nothingness. Barely a handful of platitudes and pleasantries were exchanged before they fell into a casual discussion as though they had merely taken a moment’s break from doing so. How Harry managed communication quite so easily was beyond Draco; despite the fact that they only spoke intermittently, he always seemed capable of initiating a casual conversation at the drop of a hat. It was almost as though he had a script for every given situation stored in inventory. Draco had to wonder at the foundations his childhood provided to develop such abilities.

By the time the waiter arrived with Draco’s Firewhisky, they had become thoroughly embroiled in a debate over the legitimacy of beater Jenkin’s suspension from the Glenacre Ghouls two weeks prior. Draco kept up with the quidditch league as a matter of principle despite no longer playing himself, but he had not engaged in such discussions with anyone in years. Not even Blaise bothered with him anymore despite professions of his own continued interest, and Greg’s tendencies had dropped when he’d finished school and left the team behind.

“All I’m saying is that if they were so worried about possible concussions, then there needs to be instilled stricter guidelines as to the specific allowances for Beaters,” Harry was saying persistently, finger poking at the table as though to highlight his words. 

“That’s preposterous,” Draco countered. “If a beater can’t control the force he puts into a swing, he shouldn’t be a beater at all. That’s his very role in the match.”

“Yes, but the very act of whacking a bludger at someone pretty much makes the odds of potential injury highly probably. You wouldn’t find Muggle sports allowing that sort of thing.”

“Muggle sports? You mean like the one where you’re fouled for even touching another player?” Draco snorted derogatorily. 

“I’m not sure which sport you’re referring to.”

“There’s more than one that have that rule?”

“Yeah, well, it’s sort of in keeping with the whole ‘playing safe’ theme." 

“Playing safe? How very Muggle.”

“That is the general idea, yes,” Harry smirked. “I suppose Muggles just have a more pronounced sense of self-preservation than witches and wizards do.”

Before Draco could reply, their waiter, clad in a uniform of green and black, arrived and placed an ice-filled tumbler of Firewhisky before him. The young blonde man barely spared Draco a glance before turning to Harry and setting down a bottle of some dark-tinted liquid of which Draco couldn’t make out the name. 

“On the house, Harry.”

“I’ve already had one ‘on the house’,” Harry replied, flashing his easy smile at the young man.

Blondie shrugged. “Uncle Gerold said you’ve pretty much got free reign on the bar taps.” He smiled winningly in a grin that was so suggestive that Draco nearly twitched with the urge to lob his tumbler at the man’s head. “You’ve still never told me what you’re holding over his head.”

Harry shrugged, disregarding the question. “It’s not really anything all that special.”

“Then why won’t you tell me?”

“Well, if Gerold doesn’t want to tell you he’s keeping it from you for a reason.”

Blondie pouted. “I feel so excluded. You won’t ever let me join in your games with you, Harry.”

This time Draco’s fingers really did twitch, and it took every ounce of his mental strength to suppress the urge to indeed crack his glass over the young man’s head. Flirting? Oh yes, Blondie certainly was flirting. For a moment Draco had almost forgotten that the Falcon’s Nest was a gay bar. While a little alternate, it didn’t have anything that particularly screamed LGBT. More than that, apparently the ambiance of the club had reduced the fervent need for dancers to rub and grind against each other, or the drunken to lock onto one another in mindless sucking and salivary exchange. Apart from the occasional pairs of men or women – and sometimes men and women – dancing loosely with one another, there was nothing. Even the diners appeared to be composed more of mixed groups than exclusive couples.

 

But of course, the only individual in the club that chose to openly flirt with those not expressly their partners had to choose Harry as their target. And, as suggested by Blondie’s words, they had to be the nephew of the club owner. Harry had mentioned briefly several days before that he was on good terms with the owner Gerold. Apparently those terms were very good, good enough to extend to the man’s family. Blondie’s smile definitely suggested he was quite fond of Harry.

The only thing that prevented Draco from acting was the fact that Harry very obviously did not reciprocate those feelings. His whole body language, from the slightly withdrawing lean of his posture to the friendly but reserved smile he gave the younger man, said he held nothing of the same interest. Blondie obviously didn’t realise, but Draco wasn’t terribly concerned. If the boy couldn’t see it, woe be it to him when he was eventually let down. For some reason, Draco doubted that faithful and ardent pursuit was really the way to win the affections of the Saviour of the Wizarding world.

Harry and Blondie exchanged brief words, nothing more than superficial and redundant pleasantries and questions that sounded more compulsive than anything, before Harry seemed to register that Draco was maintaining his silence. He very deliberately turned towards him and offered a smile that Draco delightedly recognised as being _better_ than the one Blondie had received. 

“Draco, this is Francis, nephew of Gerold who owns the place. Francis, this is Draco.”

“Oh, I know who he is.” Francis – though Draco preferred Blondie – spared him a glance that he was all too familiar with. In short, it was recognition, attempted friendliness and acceptance, and largely disregard. Draco didn’t really care either way, but the little almost amiable smile vexed him. Why even try? “Everyone knows who Draco Malfoy is.”

“That they do,” Harry agreed, his smile turning into more of a smirk. When had he become so proficient at smirking? He’d certainly seemed incapable of anything so subtle in their teenage years.

Francis switched his attention back towards Harry with a beaming smile. “Not as famous as you, though.”

Draco almost snorted aloud, and had to smother it in a sip of whiskey. Suck up. It would have been disgusting to watch if it wasn’t so amusing. Harry seemed to think so too from his expression, but Francis seemed largely oblivious. More than that, he seemed intent on engaging Harry in another attempt at conversation, only ceasing his attempts when another young man, head of dark curls and an almost submissive disposition, appeared at his side. 

“Francis, your uncle’s looking for you.”

Francis paused mid-word, pouting to the intruder. “He is not. He just doesn’t want me talking to Harry. Don’t make excuses for him, Kevyn."  
  
Kevyn rolled his eyes long-sufferingly, sharing a knowing smile with Harry and offering a faintly apologetic one to Draco. Evidently, such occurrences happened quite frequently. “Either way, he wants to see you.”

Grumbling, Francis obliged, his disgruntled expression alleviated only briefly when he spared one final beaming smile for Harry. Kevyn remained only long enough to receive a gratefully mouthed ‘thanks’ from Harry and offer another apologetic glance towards Draco before following the blonde man. 

“Well,” Draco drawled. “Someone’s popular."

Harry actually winced. “Was it that obvious?”

“You’d have to be blind, deaf and stupid to have missed it.”

Sighing, as though he was nothing if not wearied by the situation, Harry shook his head. “Gerold said he had a bit of a crush.”

“A bit? I’d say he’s more than a little infatuated.”

“It’s just a crush, Draco,” Harry said, and he sounded almost cautioning in his rebuff. The effect was dampened slightly, however, by the faint flush of his cheeks. “Besides, he’s just a kid.”

Draco took a casual sip of his whiskey. “He couldn’t be younger than seventeen. I can’t imagine the owner of this establishment allowing an underage worker. Even if they were his nephew.”

“Especially because he’s his nephew. You don’t know Gerold. He’s a little overprotective of him.”

“Perhaps he believes unfulfillable pursuit is for the best?”

“Yeah, probably. I doubt he’d be all too fond of Francis seeing anyone. Especially someone six years his senior.”

“Even if that someone was the Chosen One? Salazar, this Gerold must have high standards.”

“Please don’t call me ‘the Chosen One’,” Harry groaned.

Draco chuckled. The words, “Oh, that is the least of what I could call you,” were on the tip of his tongue, but he somehow managed to hold them back. He leant back casually in his seat. “That’s the only problem, then?”

“Hm?”

“That he’s too young. That’s the only issue? You’ve no prior attachments?”

“Well, it’s not the only issue. If I wanted a relationship, I’d hardly look for it from someone barely an adult. I don’t fancy myself a cradle snatcher.” Harry’s nose twitched as he fought back a smile. “But what’s this? Are you poking around my love life again, Draco?”

“You make me sound criminal. I’m merely curious.”

“Why? Because you don’t have much of one going yourself?” Obviously realising the harshness of his words an instant after he said them, Harry winced. “Sorry. That sounded…“ 

“Crude, yet truthful.” Draco shrugged, not allowing himself to be effected by the comment. Draco didn’t want a relationship. Or at least, he didn’t want just any relationship, and not just with anyone. Harry’s presence seemed to become suddenly more pronounced. “And yes, you’re right. So now, as my… friend, it is your duty to let me live through you.”

There was an unexpected pause as Draco took another sip of his drink. When he raised his eyes to Harry, it was to behold an expression he’d never seen before. Faintly confused and somehow satisfied. “What?”

Slowly shaking his head, Harry dropped his gaze to the bottle in his hands. “Nothing, just…”

“Oh, pray, don’t leave me in suspense.”

“Just that you’ve never called me your friend before." 

Draco paused himself this time. He’d heard himself say the word, of course. Heard it right after a frantic and objectionable mental debate over his use of the word. Feigning nonchalance, he shrugged. “Well, aren’t you?”

Harry offered him a crooked grin that was entirely worth any discomfort he may have acquired from the situation. “Definitely.”

“Then why are you objecting?”

“I’m not objecting. I’m just surprised. I never saw the great Draco Malfoy as being one to acknowledge he had friends.”

Draco regarded him flatly for a moment. Then, very resolutely turning to face the dance floor, he replied in a cool tone, “Potter? Shut up.”

Harry only laughed in reply. Draco hoped that he couldn’t discern the faint warmth that was rising in his cheeks and tickling his neck. And he very, _very_ much hoped that Harry wasn’t proficient in Legilimancy. If he could read the real intentions off the surface of Draco’s thoughts… well, Draco wasn’t entirely certain of what he would do, but he didn’t think he was ready for the rejection that was a very likely possibility. He could only sip sedately at his drink and offer a condescending half-smile in return.

As far as nights out went, it was relatively standard. Which, for Draco, meant that it was hardly usual for him at all. He hadn’t been out with a single person – one that he fostered a one-sided attraction for at that – in… in possibly forever. Whenever that realisation surfaced, he found himself becoming taut with discomfort, only for that tension to ease rapidly when their conversation took its frequent interesting turns. It even managed to distract Draco from the very brief yet lingering shadow of the conversation that had passed following Francis’ departure.

He didn’t mean to focus on the fact that Harry had not once claimed he wasn’t attracted to the young man. The niggling voice in the back of his head simply wouldn’t silence.

But in spite of that, in spite of the roiling and repetitive track of his thoughts, of what he refused to consider to be a hope, Draco enjoyed himself. Because that’s what it was like with Harry. In a word, enjoyable. In more than a word… so much more than that. He’d never have guessed ten years ago, not in a million years, that he would actually find himself enjoying talking with his once-rival.

As usual, they spoke of work, both dancing around the subjects of their own current occupations without revealing any particular facts. It was always a safe area, discussing something so neutral.

And yet that faded into discussion of friends and colleagues and, though Draco had little to no inclination to hear about Weasley and Granger and their antics, he would listen because Harry spoke to him and anything he said was an insight into his character. A character that Draco very much wanted to become affiliated with. It helped that much of what Harry shared held a note of fond exasperation for Weasley’s stupidity, or Granger’s persistence. 

Draco shared his own tales of woe for those he at times barely considered his friends. Which led to speculation of schooling days gone by, of the current status of Hogwarts, which somehow jumped to politics, then took a dive back into quidditch, and briefly even mentioned the lingering effects of the Muggle Cold War that had left a still standing impression upon the Wizarding world of America.

It was unconventional, to say the least. Before eleven o’clock, Draco was long past regretting that he’d been avoiding spending a night out with Harry. Regret it he had, but the thought seemed negligible now. It was far too easy to be… natural. Or at least as natural as Draco ever allowed himself to be.

The table was littered with bottles and empty cups by the time midnight clocked by. While the benefits of befriending the owner of the club may have seemed profuse at first, the detriments in the form of uninhibited liquor intake were rapidly making themselves known. Draco was already experiencing the throbbing beginnings of light-headedness and Harry had long since switched to Butterbeer rather than the spirits he’d been drinking beforehand.

The tables and chairs they were situated amidst were relatively empty, despite the undulating mass of individuals that now populated the ground floor of the club. Draco had questioned Harry on the nature of their isolation – there was not even ten others in the little bird’s nest, and none had spared Draco and Harry’s corner table an instant of attention in the past half an hour – and discovered that it was something of a V.I.P. section. Draco wasn’t complaining; it actually felt quite nice to be afforded such privilege. Quite nice indeed.

Harry let out a heavy sigh, drawing Draco’s gaze from where it was affixed on a speaker at the podium. The middle-aged witch, a honeycomb of mousy hair coiled atop her head, was proclaiming something or other about the disadvantageous effects of the latest brand of Invisibility Powder that was circulating the market at present. Draco wouldn’t have spared her even a second thought if not for the fact that she was so obviously a very learned individual, her angle more focused upon justifying her opinion and expanding into the misuse of magical experimentation in the name of commercialism. It was actually quite interesting.

Not, however, as interesting as the reason for Harry’s almost mournful sigh. At least, that’s what Draco fuzzy mind was telling him. He glanced at Harry for a moment before following the train of his gaze to the crowd below. What he saw made him freeze. Or at least freeze as much as he could in his semi-drunken state.

At eleven o’clock that evening, the Falcon’s Nest had opened the bottleneck of its front doors wide and allowed the number of patrons to double. Such a procedure was, according to Harry, done in respect for the diners looking to have a relatively tame and quiet meal without the euphoric enthusiasm of partiers.

Not that ‘euphoric’ really described any of the clients at the Falcon’s Nest. Each and every one of them seemed to possess something other, something almost like class, that dissuaded submersion into full-blown intoxication, and of which Draco thoroughly approved. The dance floor had extended, the bar acquiring several more pairs of hands for assistance, and the music increasing in volume, but it was nothing even as rowdy as the Lodestone was known to become at times. And the Lodestone didn’t even have a dancer floor as such.

With the influx of clients, the reason the Falcon’s Nest was dubbed a gay bar became slowly apparent. Couples. There were couples everywhere, and many didn’t show the bashful hesitancy of the earlier patrons. Draco and Harry had shared a bemused conversation or two over several courtship rituals that oft ended as badly as they did successfully. But jest as they might, Draco had found their discussion a learning experience in and of itself. For though Harry might joke and shake his head at the couples woefully, there was something in his gaze, some falseness in the spread of his smile, which suggested it wasn’t entirely whole-hearted. 

If Draco were to label it, he would call it longing.

That barely seen longing was now written even more prominently across Harry’s face as Draco turned his full attention upon it once more. Elbow propped on the table and chin resting in one hand, Harry gazed down at a couple of young men held loosely in one another’s embrace. Their faces were picturesque in bliss and ardour, and even from a distance, even through the dim light that cloaked the dance floor, Draco could see that to them at least no one else in the world existed. Not in that moment.

And Harry was watching them. Longingly.

Draco’s tongue spoke before his mind had fully given it his permission. “See something you like?”

Starting slightly, Harry blinked rapidly and turned towards him. “Sorry?”

Draco gestured his glass towards the couple. Or at least as much in their general direction as he could manage across the distance. “Those two.”

Harry turned slowly back towards them, his face falling into a guarded expression. “What about them?” 

“Don’t play daft, Potter. I saw how you were looking at them. So. What is it?”

Harry fell silent for a moment. It irked Draco slightly, but he rationalised that at least he wasn’t denying it anymore. When Harry did eventually speak, it was slow and hesitant. “I just… it seems… nice.”

“Cuddling in public like a pathetic pair of lovebirds?”

“When you put it like that it just sounds stupid.”

“There’s a reason for that,” Draco replied, widening his eyes pointedly. Harry rolled his own in return, but his shoulders hunched slightly, chin dropping in an almost dejected manner. It was horrifying enough to witness that Draco actually felt a brief twinge of that damnable guilt arise within him. “You’re jealous of their relationship?”

Harry glanced towards Draco without raising his head. “I think more… envious than jealous.”

“I don’t follow.”

Harry shrugged uncomfortably. “It’s just that I’ve never really had anything like that.”

Draco arched an eyebrow. “What, not even with the Weaslette?”

“I wish you wouldn’t call her that,” Harry replied flatly. “ And if I had, don’t you think Ginny and I would still be together now?”

Draco sensed he’d struck a chord and immediately dropped any inclination to discuss Ginevra Weasley further. Besides, he didn’t think teasing and snide comments were really the right approach in the given context. Harry actually seemed to be opening up of a sort. Draco couldn’t help but feel a flicker of excitement for the fact. An excitement that he had to crush like a bug beneath his fist for its foolishness.

Bowing his head, ceding, Draco moderated his tone. “I didn’t mean to suggest. It was merely in jest.”

“I know,” Harry said after a moment. “Sorry. I guess it’s just a sore spot at the moment.”

“At the moment? I thought you said you weren’t looking for a relationship?”

“I’m not _looking_ ,” Harry replied with emphasis. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t hope it would find me. Searching would just end in… in disaster.”

“And why is that?” Draco asked, genuinely curious. He couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to turn down Harry. “Surely most every witch with an ounce of sense would leap at the chance to date the famous Harry Potter.” He tried to mask the sincerity of his compliment behind a mocking tone and thought he managed fairly well. Hopefully. 

“That’s precisely the problem,” Harry replied, frowning slightly. He ran a hand through his hair in his familiar gesture of awkwardness. “That’s… that’s the problem.”

“You don’t want someone to express attraction for you for your fame?” Draco hazarded a guess. It sounded like a very Harry thing to worry about. In his own family, name, fame and fortune had been everything. For generations matches between purebloods had been established based on such external traits. That had all changed with the revolution of sorts in recent years, and with it Draco had happened upon the understanding that most families and relationships didn’t operate that way. It had taken a solid six years to reach the conclusion that modern marriages were more likely to be built on mutual love and trust than expectations and progressive desires for boosting one’s political station. He’d always sort of known that some families acted in such ways, but it had never really seemed applicable to him in the past.

But things were different now.

Harry nodded his head in reply. “Yeah, there is that too.” Then he clamped his lips shut.

Perhaps it was the half-dozen glasses of Firewhiskey that Draco had downed that night, or perhaps it was just that he had been denying himself such a possibility for so long that when it finally bared itself as a _real_ possibility he overlooked it. But when realisation hit him, he couldn’t stop himself from speaking. “Perhaps it’s not the witches attention you so desire?”

Harry maintained his silence, but from the twitch of his cheek and the tightening of his jaw Draco knew he wasn’t far from the mark.

“I’ve hit the Niffler’s nest, haven’t I?” Pause. “I guessed right?”

The glare Harry turned upon him did more to incite his overwhelming attraction than anything excepting perhaps his smile could have. There was wariness and hesitancy there, but also a bubbling anger the likes of which Draco hadn’t seen directed towards him in years. It was as intoxicating as his whiskey. More so. “And? What if you have? Do you have a problem with that?" 

“Hardly,” Draco replied. And then his body acted for him, in a fashion that his mind, though belated, entirely agreed with. He almost couldn’t breath for the rising delight that coursed through him. 

Leaning across the table, Draco caught the back of Harry’s head in one hand and, tugging him forwards, drew him into the kiss that he’d been positively burning for years. Harry was frozen, warm lips that tasted faintly spicy unmoving. Beneath Draco’s hand, at the top of his neck, his muscles had tensed and Draco knew without looking that every other part of him had tautened to bowstring tightness in a similar kind.

Until it all melted.

Like an icicle beneath a Condensation Charm, Harry sunk towards Draco, into the table and leaning back into the kiss. Draco, moving his chin and adjusting his head to deepen their contact, nearly groaned as tentative fingers reached for the back of Draco’s head, cupping him just beneath both ears. At the same moment, Harry’s lips parted, allowing the questing probe of Draco’s tongue to dip inside, fully _tasting_ him for the first time.

This was what bliss must feel like. And Draco had wanted it for so long that he almost didn’t know what to do when such a miracle fell within his grasp.

He cursed the table between them. Somewhere in the back of his mind, in the part that wasn’t fully focused upon touching Harry, feeling his hair tangling beneath his fingers, the warm softness of skin, the smell of sweat and cologne and that spicy wine that Draco simply _must_ try, he cursed that hunk of wood. It seemed to be the only thing that stood between him crossing the distance between them to cleave their bodies together until not a hairsbreadth remained between. But in being denied that, the simple act of hands to head, to cheeks, to jaw, the softness of lips on lips and the nip of teeth that twinged in the best possible pain, was perfect. The very sensation of tongue stroking along tongue sent tingles of pleasure coursing down Draco’s spine. He could only push himself deeper into Harry, pressing closer to prevent even the hint of breath from escaping his grasp.

When they finally drew apart, both gasped. Draco felt not the slightest embarrassment for the fact, however, heady with the aftereffects of their kiss and the arousal that swum through his veins. Besides, he wasn’t the only one to be so compromised; Harry did so too just as ardently. And though they still retained their seats, both unmoving to circle that damned table and close the distance between them, there was no withdrawal either. Harry’s hands sat firmly upon each side of Draco’s neck, cupping gently as though he was afraid he might cause damage with the simple touch of his fingers. Draco retained his grasp upon Harry’s head, fingers half-woven through his hair just as resolutely.

When breath became possible once more, it was Harry who spoke first. “I…” He paused to swallow, eyes flickering briefly to the side. “What was that?”

Draco couldn’t help himself. He was caught in the heat of the moment, physically thrumming with the need to touch Harry, to feel him, to savour that which he had longed for so long. The realisation of reality, of a possible chance to win Harry’s affections, was headier than any wine. Without thought he resorted to the one thing he knew could maintain his level-headedness.

Sarcasm, mockery and jest. The safety approach.

“I would think that was fairly self explanatory,” Draco smirked. “Surely you’ve done as much with Weaslette.” 

Harry huffed a breath that was more of a gasping chuckle than a sigh. He didn’t actually seem all that affronted by Draco’s teasing. “I meant…” He had to pause again to swallow, the sound inaudible over the seemingly distant hum of music. His eyes dropped for a moment, flickering towards the table, down his chest, to the side, before they rose once more. And when he met Draco’s own, Draco found that he couldn’t look away. There had always been something captivating about Harry’s gaze, regardless of whether they were filled with the intensity of anger or disdain or amusement.

Or, in this case, wary, hesitant, yet definitely present hope. And, dare Draco think it, desire?

“What I meant was you… you kissed me.”

“I did. I’m glad you realised.”

“You kissed me. And I kissed you. And…” Harry’s eyes widened slightly, unblinking. “Draco, what does this mean?”

Sighing in exasperation to cover up the swell of batting butterflies in his belly, Draco tugged sharply at the hold he had on Harry’s hair. Hard enough that it actually rocked Harry in his seat, though he didn’t seem any worse for wear for it. “A kiss is a kiss.” Let Harry make of it what he would. Draco knew what he wanted, but he wanted Harry to reach that conclusion, afford that desire himself rather than simply assuming Draco’s. If, that is, such a conclusion was a possibility. 

The kiss though… surely that was an indication?

“But we’re friends.”

“We have already established that earlier this evening." 

“Friends don’t kiss one another, Draco.”

Draco shrugged with forced casualness. “They might.”

Harry shook his head sharply, nearly tugging free of Draco’s grip. Draco’s fingers unconsciously tightened. “Not like that they don’t.”

 _Oh, fuck. He’s playing the friend card. No way in hell is he going to back out of this situation using the_ friend _card._ Forcing himself to shrug nonchalantly, Draco leant back slightly in his seat. It took even more effort for him to force his fingers to loosen from their handhold, lowering to the table. Assuming a casual expression – and Merlin, did it take effort – Draco smirked. “Well, some do.”

Harry’s own hands had slipped from Draco’s head at the same time, but blessedly he hadn’t pulled away into his own seat. While Draco had settled himself with false ease back into his own seat, Harry still leant forwards across the table almost eagerly. His frown was confused, however. “What do you mean by that?”

Surely the alcohol must have been addling Harry’s brains, Draco thought. No one could be so oblivious. Surely. Draco had unearthed a potential lovers interest in Harry, a chink in his literally straight-laced sexuality that was nothing if not beatific, and best of all that interest had possibly been extended to encompass Draco. That kiss, that single kiss, had surely been more than a mere impulse, more than simply reactive. Surely it had some meaning.

Regarding Harry with a faintly condescending smile – for he feared that if not condescension, desperation would certainly slip forth – Draco cocked his head. Harry peered up at him with head down, face a picture of wary confusion that was so unfamiliar upon his features yet he wore so well. “I don’t want to impose upon your delicate sensibilities –“

“Draco, don’t be a prat.”

“- but surely you’ve heard of such situations before? What better partner to have than a friend? You share at least _some_ common interests, and if relieving other necessary tensions is included in the relationship…” Draco trailed off suggestively. He doubted he would have been able to finish his words anyway. Hopefully – _hopefully_ – Harry wasn’t being too deliberately obtuse to overlook such an obvious suggestion. It wasn’t ideal, true; for the first time in perhaps his entire life, Draco found himself actually wanting a relationship. An _actual_ relationship. But if Harry wanted -  

“Friends with benefits? Is that what you’re suggesting?”

Draco didn’t want that. He didn’t want that at all. But if he must, he would take anything he could get. If that was all Harry was comfortable with, he would accept that. For now.

Forcing a smirk onto his lips, he shrugged once more in a repetition that was becoming almost wearisome. “I certainly wouldn’t say no. You’re not appalling to look at.”

Harry was silent. His face was still slightly upturned towards Draco, his eyes fixed and unblinking and captivating. Draco felt like a mouse frozen by a snake’s hypnotic gaze. His expression, however, was unreadable. Draco had never seen it so guarded. Or at least he hadn’t in years. He couldn’t even gleam a hint of what lay beneath that surface.

Finally, Harry spoke. It was in a slow, measured tone, low and almost a whisper. “Is that… what you’d want? Is that what you do in… for relationships?”

Draco cocked his head. He schooled his features to mild consideration, while inside his thoughts raced at a million miles an hour. The soft intensity of Harry’s kiss still settled upon his lips, and he clung to that as his only means of protection from rejection. He shrugged once more; it was becoming difficult to do so now. “I’ve never really been one much for relationships. So yes, typically I would say such would be my usual circumstances.”

It wasn’t. They weren’t usual, not by any means. Draco didn’t initiate any degree of physical intimacy with his friends, not since Hogwarts and the disaster of a relationship with Pansy. Millicent always teased her that she had been the catalyst for Draco’s discovery of his sexuality. Pansy was, naturally, torn between horror, affront and delight at the prospect.

But when it came to lovers, Draco rarely saw the same person twice. Occasionally, if the chemistry was particularly exceptional and his partner agreed, they would meet on subsequent intervals. But that was only rarely. Becoming acquainted with someone on that level, being so vulnerable, was… well, terrifying wasn’t a word that Draco liked to use in relation to himself, but it was somewhat appropriate.

The only person that Draco could even consider himself initiating an actual relationship with, one of those friends as lovers as partners and companions sort of ideals that Witch Weekly always ranted about, was Harry. And his desire for such had been so long in existence that he doubted he could shake the want if he tried.

With a hooded gaze, fighting every moment to maintain calm and composed, Draco observed Harry. He observed his silence, his muted staring, the slight twitch of his lips – his _lips_ , Merlin they’d never looked so tempting – and catalogued them all to his inventory of ‘Harry’. And he noticed it, the exact moment that Harry pulled away. That he begun to withdraw from his forward leaning across the table and curl back in upon himself in that wary confusion he wore so well. His mouth opened and closed once, twice, before he spoke.

“I… I think…” He paused, swallowed, and abruptly stood up. “Excuse me for a moment.” And without a second more of pause he rose from their table and strode in the direction of the stairs.

Draco watched with a carefully stoic gaze. He had to, and all he could force himself to do was stare, for inside he was a riot bordering on panic. Every urge within him screamed to leap to his feet, to race after Harry and demand to know exactly he was thinking, to blurt out the truth of the feelings he’d harboured for years now like a bumbling schoolboy. But he couldn’t. He was rigid and frozen and unmoving. As cool and composed as he always was. He just watched.

And because he watched, so carefully and studiously, he saw the glance Harry cast over his shoulder before disappearing. A glance that made his heart sink. It was as closed and guarded, as wary and unshakeable as it had been at its worst in the past. Only briefly, but it was enough that whatever hopes had flared and arisen so jubilantly evaporated like fog before a _Lumos_ charm.

Just a little bit of Draco shattered and disappeared along with it.


	9. Completing the One-Eighty

Draco was pissed off.

Not simply annoyed or frustrated. He was not even just angry.

No, Draco was pissed off.

It had taken him all of a few minutes to descend into such a state. When he’d thrust aside the upwelling melancholy, the hopelessness that his desires would forever remain unfulfilled due to a brief and confusing interplay, he’d become vexed. That flickering anger that was such a characteristic of his personality, that he had taught himself over years to control, arose once more. And it manifested into something innately more.

What had happened? What exactly had driven Harry from a point of openness and surety, of eagerness even, into rejection?

Because it had been rejection. It had been. Draco couldn’t perceive it as anything but. Harry had literally fled from him rather than accept the offer that was held aloft to him. As though he disdained it. It was not a very Harry like attitude at all, something in Draco reasoned, but was the reason anger had arisen and was responsible for his currently pissed off state of being.

And suddenly, in spite of the enjoyment he’d experienced all evening, in spite of the arousal and desire that still lingered within him regardless of his vexation, Draco knew he had to get out of the club. He could have waited for Harry to return. He could have confronted him, asked him, _demanded_ from him, his reasons for rejection. Draco had offered himself up on a figurative platter and Harry had turned him aside. It affronted as much as it pained Draco.

No, affronted was a word too mild.

But Draco didn’t. Suddenly he didn’t want to remain there, to act upon his impulse to know. To understand what was going through Harry’s head and why he apparently wasn’t good enough for him. He wanted out.

It was exactly this reason – or at least this amongst other reasons – that Draco did not associate with others.

Rising to his feet and struggling to maintain a visage of composure, Draco swung his cloak around his shoulders and swept from the bird’s nest of tables. Descending the stairs, he strode purposefully towards the door, weaving through gently milling bodies towards the exit. The bouncer, a different one this time, slightly taller and with a face like stone, nodded as he passed him.

The night air was chilling. A cloud of opaque fog blossomed before Draco’s face with each breath, illuminated by the lights beaming from the noisy clubs along Griffin Street. With rapid steps he set off away from the Falcon’s Nest as fast as possible. Away from Harry.

The darkness became thicker the further down Griffin Street he strode. Flickering candles in street lamps brightened a little of the walkway, but even so, with the dwindling of clubs visibility only decreased further. The ice beneath Draco’s boots was slick, each step sliding just slightly. A light snowfall had just begun to patter from overhead.

It was a culmination of these factors, as well his simmering anger, that likely led him to slip. Draco prided himself on his own grace, the fact that he could remain respectably composed at all times. He knew there were some who even claimed him ‘elegant’.

Elegance had not even a sidelong part to play in the act Draco found himself suddenly performing. As though a rug had been yanked abruptly from beneath his feet, he found his legs flying from beneath him. In a dramatic sprawl the likes of which would have left him mortified if his world had not abruptly been so completely subverted, he found himself tumbling arse over head and landed with a rather impressive smack on the ground.

It hurt. He jarred his elbow, his back, his arse, smacked his shoulder. The only thing that Draco felt didn’t impact the solid ground was, blessedly, his head.

“ _Fuck_.”

Perfect. Just perfect. After an admittedly enjoyable night that ended in disaster, the fall was just the cherry onto of a shit pile sundae. Abso-fucking-lutely perfect. Draco couldn’t even bring himself to clamber to his feet to disrupt the complete imperfection of the scene.

Of course he would fall. Of course the fucking ground would choose that night to become an ice skating rink. Of course he would –

“Are you alright, Mr Malfoy?”

The tentative voice broke into Draco’s internal rant and abruptly stilled his thoughts. Pausing to affirm that the words were truly sounded and not just a figment of his imagination, he slowly levered himself into sitting. To the feeling of cold wetness gradually chilling his bare fingers, Draco glanced around himself.

For a moment it was too dark to see anything. Then, with a muttered “ _Lumos”_ , Draco’s single audience member revealed himself. He leant down towards Draco so that there was barely a foot between their faces.

It was the boy from the Falcon’s Nest. The dark-haired one. What was his name? Colin? Clive? No, not quite, Draco faintly recalled. An instant later, however, he stopped wondering. Draco couldn’t bring himself to care for the identity of the boy.

Turning from him, Draco finally rose to his feet. It took a physical effort to force himself not to completely disregard the boy, to take his leave and Apparate home as soon as possible. To closet himself away from the world who was so objectionable in a way that was almost too familiar to the habits of his mother to consider a possibility.

But then he caught a glimpse of the young man out of the corner of his eye and he paused. Because for a moment, he could have sworn he was Harry. Slowly, he turned his attention fully towards his onlooker.

He was dark-haired, curls a tousled mess that was perhaps not quite as masterfully unkempt as Harry’s but wasn’t far off. He was a little shorter than Harry, perhaps, so Draco had to tilt his head down slightly to meet his gaze. Maybe a little broader across the shoulders, but it wasn’t enough to be noticeable, especially beneath his heavy overcoat. But more than that, outside of the club he’d outfitted himself with a pair of rectangular spectacles. It was that more than anything that triggered the resemblance.

_I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t. But maybe…_

Almost compulsively, Draco took a step towards the boy, cocking his head. “What’s your name?’

Dark eyes blinked up at him with wary curiosity. “Kevyn, sir.”

“Don’t call me sir. It sounds absolutely ridiculous.”

“Sorry, si… Um. What would you like me to call you?” Kevyn bowed his head abashedly.

“Whatever else you’d like,” Draco replied after a moment’s thought. He really couldn’t care less otherwise.

Kevyn peered up at him almost shyly, a small smile playing on his lips. He did seem absurdly young. “Alright… Mr Malfoy.”

Draco studied to young man for a moment. Young he was, yes, but surely he was at least seventeen. After seeing Francis at the Falcon’s Nest, that the young blonde had to be at least of age, after what Harry said –

No. No, Draco didn’t want to finish that thought. Resolutely turning his attention from anything even vaguely reminiscent of Harry, he focused completely upon Kevyn. The boy was an open-faced image of attentiveness. “What are you doing for the rest of the night, Kevyn?”

Kevyn blinked blankly for a moment, then his face spread into an expression of suggestive bashfulness. _Not so young after all._ “I didn’t have anything in particular planned.”

Dammit. It was too perfect. “Wonderful. Splendid, even.” Draco forced a suggestive smirk of his own onto his face. “How would you like to spend it with me?”

Kevyn’s smile broadened. Shifting languidly from one foot to the other, he tilted his head. “I think I’d like that very much, Mr Malfoy.”

Draco tried to ignore the niggling thought, the cautioning, the questioning, that assaulted him like a tidal wave. He ignored the fact that he rarely if ever took anyone home to his own house. It was simply something he didn’t do. 

But tonight… he simply _wanted_. Something. Anything. Without another word, he gripped Kevyn’s arm and Apparated. 

~|=|~

Passion is a remarkable thing. The subtle cues that incite action can at times be so easily overlooked and yet in other instances noticed immediately with absolute certainty.

From the moment Draco dragged Kevyn through his door, he was upon him. Kevyn was only too eager to reciprocate. There was a sense of urgency that gnawed at Draco, a desperate need for distraction, and he let it consume him. And despite the fact that half his mind was still remained back at the Falcon’s Nest, mourning the loss of a relationship that had never and would never be, his body acted. And, with each foreign touch, reacted.

Kevyn was a more than active participant, though Draco ignored any suggestions he verbally made. He ignored everything except the movement of his own hands, the tugging of clothes to reveal bare skin, to discard first coats, then shoes, robes and underclothes to the ground as they stumbled down the hallway in a haphazard mess. It was almost like he couldn’t hear the giggles of the boy with him, the breathy words and half-spoken queries. They didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he acted, that the lingering heat that clung to him in spite of his humiliation was satisfied. 

When they fell into the bedroom, it was Draco who pushed Kevyn to the bed. The young man landed with a gasp, propping himself up on his elbows an instant later. Pausing only to magically illuminate their setting, Draco stepped up to the bed and observed his latest bed partner.

Kevyn certainly was pleasing to look at. His young body was slender, tapered to the waist from broad shoulders above long, muscular legs. Pale skin glowed almost luminescent in the yellowish light Draco had cast. His upturned face, freed from his glasses somewhere along their frantic race from the front door, turned lust-blown eyes upon Draco. The fall of his fringe across his eyes made him look almost – _almost_ – like Harry. As Draco watched, he licked his lips greedily. “Mr Malfoy, I…”

That was enough for Draco. Throwing away the rising guilt, the flicker of reprimand that he _should not be doing this_ , that if he couldn’t have Harry then he didn’t really want anyone, he fell upon the boy.

If Harry didn’t want him, then he’d take what he could get. It would be useless to hold out for an impossibility. Besides, it wasn’t like he’d not done so before.

Working his way onto the bed in a crawl that brought him suspended over Kevyn’s body, he finally dropped his lips to kiss him. The first he had offered; Kevyn had been more than willing to offer his own little pecks, nipping at his jaw and chin, straining for attention. He was just as eager to reciprocate when Draco finally acted himself, setting his lips, his hands, upon the boy. Yet though Kevyn seemed as eager to touch and explore Draco’s body as Draco touched his own, it was a one-way street.

Draco had always been the directive one in the bedroom. It was simply how he liked it. Exactly how he liked it. To him, there was something relieving about allowing his more assertive nature to rise forth and act entirely as it desired. That assertion was at times far too smothered by public restrictions. He would never be one to completely dominate; he’d heard too many stories from Pansy to ever feel so inclined. But he liked it how he liked it, and made sure his bed partners knew that. Knew, and complied by largely following his directions.

Locking his lips to Kevyn’s for a moment, he gradually worked his way down the young man’s body, touching and exploring, fingers trailing over rising goosebumps. Kevyn, already gasping beneath him like a touch-starved adolescent, babbled in a language that seemed almost foreign. One that Draco hardly heard except to acknowledge that the general attitude towards his attentions was a positive one. Kevyn was just as enthusiastic in his attempts to reciprocate his touches as he was to speak, his hands reaching for Draco and touching tentatively. Draco, for the most part, ignored him.

He didn’t want to be touched so much as to be the toucher.

In spite of the cloud hanging over his thoughts, Draco gradually lost himself to the feeling of skin on skin, the heat of sensitive nerves stimulated by touch. Pressing himself onto Kevyn’s urging body, the sensitivity in his groin flared in a juddering heat. It was merely a touch, the feel of his growing arousal pushed flush against the hardness of the young man beneath him, but it was enough to send a wave of pleasure coursing through him. With the undulating of hips beneath him, the desperate urging that was barely heard, Draco could lose himself to sensation. He let himself fall completely to the young man who had deemed him _acceptable_ as a lover. 

And it worked. For the most part. It distracted him from all but the clinging dregs of longing, of regret, of anger and frustration. And perhaps his attempt at distraction would have even succeeded in its entirety had he not been attacked.

It was a swift, sudden blow. Unexpected and entirely removed from the situation at hand. So unexpected that it took Draco a moment beneath the assault to realise what was going on.

Jack attacked with a vengeance. It seemed almost with the desire to kill. There was no restraint in the way the merlin’s talons scraped at the back of Draco’s head, his neck and shoulders, no reprieved from the drowning flapping of wings to the back of his head.

If anything could have drawn him so suddenly from his lust-bound state, it would have been Jack.

The attack seemed to come from everywhere at once. There seemed not one but a dozen birds, all batting spasmodically around Draco’s head and filling his ears with shrieks. Throwing himself from Kevyn, Draco made a dive for his discarded wand embedded in the pocket of his robes shed in the doorway. Arm upraised to stave off the continued attacks, he dropped to the floor, fumbling, and in a hasty, wordless casting of magic flung a shield charm before him.

The bird crashed into the invisible wall, sending a pulse of white-violet lights throbbing through the air. From the bed, half-propped up in startled audience, Kevyn let out a muted shout of surprise. Draco didn’t spare him a glance. He couldn’t, for Jack, far from being cast to the ground in defeat, had thrown himself into the air once more and crashed into the shield again. He fell back, only to leap into flight and crash again. And again. And again.

Draco was rendered immobile. He stared at the bird, the _rabid_ bird, with rising horror. In a person, he could have perhaps attributed such an attack to anger. To affront and even justified assault. But in the merlin it was pure mania. He fathomed that there was even a sort of possessed gleam in Jack’s dark, piercing eyes.

There was something… insane about the bird. And Draco felt useless. Despite knowing he had to do something, if only to put the creature out of it’s crazed misery, he couldn’t move.

As it would happen, he didn’t have to. Jack’s violent, full-body blows to the shield charm lasted only a minute more before, when he fell to the floor, he didn’t immediately leap into flight once more. Crumpled in a disorderly heap of feathers and half-folded limbs, Jack slumped to little more than a panting mess. His wings were half spread in an almost painfully unnatural posture and Draco could see the rapid breaths inflating his chest in rapid pants. It was eerily similar to the attack that had occurred not two weeks before.

There was something seriously wrong. Something wrong with Jack. Unnaturally wrong.

Before Draco could consider it further, however, before he could even take a feeble step towards his assailant, the bird threw himself into a flurry of action once more. Draco flinched reactively and on the bed Kevyn loosed another startled cry. But Jack only launched himself into the air, flapped in a series of jerks, and threw himself through the bedroom window. The window that Draco had left open to let him inside, knowing full well that he wouldn’t be home early that night. Hoping he would be home much later.

He hadn’t wanted Jack to be waiting.

Silence flooded the room. The very walls seemed to hold their breath in the aftermath of Jack’s disappearance into the night. Half crouched in readiness of fight or flight, Draco felt almost unable to move. It was as though his body was immobilised by shock

It was only when a chilling blast of wind whipped through the window that he felt urged into motion. Straightening, the flushing heat of arousal overlaid and lost to the now dwindling rush of adrenaline, he made his way to the windowsill. After a pause to glance out into the black and white pervasiveness of night – he didn’t know if he expected or even wanted to see Jack out there – he drew the window closed. It snapped with a sound of finality.

“What was that?”

Turning to the sound of the voice behind him, Draco regarded the young man sitting upright in his bed. He’d almost forgotten he was there at all. The sight of Kevyn, head cocked curiously and body still poised ready, despite the interruption, should have incited Draco to do nothing more than fall back to where he had left off. He wanted to. He truly did.

But he simply couldn’t. His budding arousal had disappeared without trace in the space of a few minutes, shed as he’d been unable to even when departing from the club. He couldn’t find it in him to seek it once more. He simply didn’t… want to. And the longer he stared at Kevyn, the less inclined he felt.

The boy was attractive, yes. But he wasn’t Harry, no matter how much he might look like him. Or didn’t look like him, Draco realised, as he stared with new eyes. The hair was not quite as messy, a little shorter than Harry wore his. The shape of his body was decidedly different to Harry’s. Perhaps not so much to a passing observer, but Draco wasn’t just any observer. He knew the planes of Harry’s body by sight almost as well as he did his own, knew how a robe hugged his shoulders, how jeans clung to his legs, the slimming line of waistband around hips that was so enticing. Kevyn just didn’t… have that. By no fault of his own he was simply lacking.

But mostly, most profoundly, were his eyes. They weren’t Harry’s eyes, and Draco couldn’t pretend they were, not even in the forgiving darkness.

“Mr Malfoy?”

At Kevyn’s prompting, Draco realised he’d not answered the question that was offered him. Drawing his mind back to the words, he shook himself slightly from his rapidly descending mood. “It was a bird. I’d thought that much was obvious.”

Kevyn smiled sheepishly. Merlin, he truly was so young. Draco hadn’t realised just how young he was until that moment. “Yeah, I gathered that. Do you often get invaded by crazy birds?”

“Jack isn’t crazy,” Draco muttered, half-glancing towards the window. He didn’t know why he defended the bird that had attacked him, leaving stinging welts across his back and tearing at his hair. Welts that remained stinging yet unheeded. Even in his own mind, he could think of no other reasoning behind the merlin’s actions. He himself had though Jack bordering on insanity if not already embracing it. But hearing it stated by someone else was different. Wrong. 

Turning from Kevyn and taking slow steps towards his wardrobe, Draco set about casting healing charms upon himself. He was finding it increasingly difficult to be in the same room as Kevyn; he would have undoubtedly felt it difficult to be with anyone. As the healing set in, he tugged at the doors of his wardrobe.

“Um, Mr Malfoy? Are you…?”

He almost felt sorry for the boy. Almost, and likely would have felt perhaps a twinge of that frustrating guilt he’d been acquiring of late. Except that he simply wasn’t in the mood. It had been a horrendous night – no, a horrendous past half an hour. The rest of the night had been fantastic, and it was that as much as the worst moment that made him feel so low _._ “Perhaps you should leave.”

There was a pause before Kevyn replied. “Oh… Oh, alright. I guess I’ll just…” The boy sounded confused, a little hurt, and yet Draco still couldn’t summon up the care. He knew it was cruel, but then Draco had never considered himself to be a kind person. “I’ll just go, then.”

Staring into the dark recesses of his wardrobe, through hanging robes and folded garments, Draco listened to the squeak of his bed as Kevyn clambered off. He didn’t turn to the soft footfalls as they made their hesitant way towards the door, nor when the boy paused in the doorway, drawing breath for a moment as though to speak yet remaining mute. He didn’t make a single motion until the distant scuffle of movement and the quiet click of the front door echoed through his little house.

And when he did it was to sigh heavily. To sag slightly where he was standing and to close his eyes. His night had _not_ gone according to plan at all.

It was shaping up to be a long and wearisome weekend.

~|=|~

Draco must have been developing some powers of precognition. At least that was what he liked to think, despite being the sceptic that he was. For the weekend following his night out with Harry and the second attack from Jack was indeed one of the longest he had ever experienced. Time had never seemed to flow so slowly.

Monday morning dawned bright in complete disregard for Draco’s sour mood. He rose with the earliest hint of sun and, in a fit of vexation, took himself out for a run for the first time in too long. He never exercised around others – it would have been simply humiliating to have an audience to watch him straining himself – but made an effort to take himself for regular treks through the woodlands surrounding Smittson’s View. 

On Monday morning, though, he ran. And even after nearly an hour, following which he was forced to Apparate panting and sweating back to the town or else risk being late for work, he was still left unsatisfied. A frustrating contemplation in the shower left him with the infuriating conclusion that there would be little that could shift his mood.

The following week did little to improve his state of mind. As was typical, every conversation with a colleague, every passing comment and nod of the head, each restrained, formal smile that was entirely forced and more false than genuine, pushed him just a little further. It didn’t help that, by Wednesday, the Kent Brewery Case was finally wrapped up, leaving Draco with little distraction from his moodily brewing thoughts.

Yorkley was driving him up the walls with his incessant chatter. Lurring’s curt responses to his flawless reports, entirely devoid of any approval or even recognition, vexed him as they truly shouldn’t have. The usual and endless repetition of review questions regarding department maintenance and general inquiries in the monthly staff meeting on Tuesday set his teeth on edge. And that was nothing to the painfully annoying scratching of quill on parchment that the scribe maintained throughout that meeting. Not even the Saturday night out with his friends, the second Saturday after what he’d come to mentally refer to as the _That_ Night, could alleviate his dark mood. He left barely an hour after arriving, which was only a little better – or perhaps it was worse – than his complete absence the week before. 

But worst of all was Harry.

Draco didn’t see all that much of him. The Dartmoor Coven Case, as it had been officially labelled, had become only increasingly severe over the week. Another dozen Field Aurors and investigators each were pulled for assistance, and barely any involved were glimpsed from their office except to be seen darting down corridors and into adjoining rooms. But on the few instances that Draco did see Harry, he only felt his moodiness become more pronounced.

Harry didn’t look at him. Most of the time such avoidance could be attributed to busyness, but the hurt part of Draco’s mind avoided such a reasonable conclusion. To Draco, it felt like he was deliberately avoiding him. The sentiment wasn’t relieved in the slightest, and was perhaps exacerbated by, the few times that Harry did appear to notice him.

Dark looks? No, that wasn’t quite right. Anger? No, it wasn’t even that; Harry’s momentary glances didn’t even begin to resemble the seething heat, the intensity of those that they had exchanged when rivals at Hogwarts. And that was what was so frustrating. Apparently, Draco couldn’t even make Harry angry anymore.

No, everything in those brief glances bottled down to one emotion. Harry, for whatever reason, felt betrayed.

Draco could see it in his eyes. In that brief glance, the flinch, the tightening of jaw and momentary crinkling of brow before Harry’s face smoothed and he ignored Draco entirely. Completely unlike his usual attitude, Harry seemed to be _avoiding_ Draco. And that was the most concerning thing of all.

Draco wasn’t used to Harry avoiding him, to being ignored. There had never been such a distancing between them before, not even when they were engaged in their silent warfare of supposed hatred.

It was horrible. Draco almost couldn’t concentrate on his work at all, his mind fixating on the hopelessness of his situation. He felt cheated; he had just discovered that the possibility of initiating a relationship with Harry was indeed a possibility, and yet there had never been less of a chance of such occurring. His situation wasn’t helped in the slightest by the fact that Lurring had assigned him possibly the driest and least stimulating case in the department at the time that had somehow escaped the derogatory label of Scouring. The man truly did seem to dislike him.

To top it all off, somehow almost as distressing as Harry’s avoidance was the absence of Jack. 

Never, not in Draco’s wildest dreams, had he considered he would find himself missing the presence of an animal. Of a crazed bird, no less. The phantom, lingering echoes of his talons on Draco’s skin still stung sympathetically, and in his logical mind he knew he should be grateful for the merlin’s absence. That if Jack appeared on his windowsill one night that he’d have to lock him out, turn him away and deny entry of Rabid Bird into his home. Jack was obviously more than a few screws loose. It would be unsafe to associate with him further.

That didn’t relieve the feeling of melancholy that settled upon him at Jack’s absence, however. In some detached part of him, some part that felt mortified when he recognised the feeling, Draco realised he missed Jack. He even missed the irritatingly persistent chirruping that seemed to be the bird’s mode of chatter. It was only on Saturday morning when he slouched bleary-eyed into his dining room that Draco realised he’d unconsciously left a portion of his previous night’s dinner waiting in the middle of the table. It seemed to embody his state of mind. 

Jack loved meatballs.

The greatest problem of all was that there was nothing to draw him from his slump. There was no drive. In the past, Draco had always turned towards his friends, who had studiously ignored his sour mood and treated him exactly as they usually would. But Draco couldn’t find it in him to appreciate such an approach now, and after barely an hour in the company his friends, following another week of listless boredom and excessive brooding, he resolved to skip the following week. 

That, and there was no Harry. Because Harry had, over the past four years, for whatever reason, always maintained his persistent attempts at befriending Draco and disregarding the shrouding walls he wrapped himself in. Now, the only thing Draco received from him was that damnable expression of betrayal. The worst of it was that he didn’t even know _why_ Harry felt so betrayed. Was it because he’d been kissed? Had Harry not wanted him to take the initiative and put himself forwards? But then, he’d responded just as eagerly, just as enthusiastically, as Draco had, hadn’t he? He _had_ , Draco was sure. So then why? Why had he fled a moment afterwards? Why was he treating Draco as though he was riddled with the plague. 

What exactly was it that Harry had so objected to?

Draco didn’t know. He could have asked, could have confronted Harry, but he didn’t. Couldn’t. It felt as though he would be somehow admitting he was in the wrong, that he had erred in some fashion and that he was apologising for something he didn’t even understand. Draco _couldn’t_ confront Harry because… because it simply wasn’t in him to be able to do so. To initiate an argument? For sure. To utter underhanded, teasing and often snide comments? Easily done.

To bare his soul in pathetic desperation as he all but pleaded to be noticed again? No, Draco could not do that. So he was left to brood. And, as had always been his go-to in such situations, he turned to the one person he was able to be entirely himself with.

Draco spent a lot of his weekends embedded in the centre of the labyrinth surrounding his mother’s home in the Reserve. He was starting to understand why she liked it so much. There was a certain tranquillity, a detachedness and calmness, an isolation that was afforded by the tall hedging, the prevalent and constant semi-darkness that overshadowed the house. And even better, though he was left to his thoughts, he felt as though the barrier provided was a plug to his trickling, demandingly negative thoughts. It gave him a brief reprieve.

Narcissa didn’t confront Draco. Such was not her way; the Malfoys had never been particularly open in their affection, nor verbally supportive. Yet supportive she was in her own way. Rather than speaking, she welcomed him into her home, ordered the house elves to cook him Japanese, and allowed him to simply Be. The only time she said something was after dinner their first night.

Seated around the small, circular table, Narcissa peered blatantly at Draco. Oddly enough, it was not an intrusive stare; his mother had a manner to her observations that removed the discomfort of being actively studied. Companionably sipping their way through a teapot, comfortable silence persisted until Narcissa casually broke it.

“You’ve had your heart broken, my son.”

Draco slowly raised his eyes to meet his mother’s. There was not sympathy, nor even pity, in that gaze, which was so like Narcissa that Draco felt comforted rather than uneasy by the intrusive statement. It was merely an observation of fact, pure and simple. “I don’t know what you mean, Mother.”

Narcissa stared at him for a long moment before blinking slowly and taking another sip of her tea. “Oh, I think you do. Don’t hide from reality, Draco. It will only make recovery longer in coming.”

And that was it. Narcissa spoke no more on the subject, and seemed, if nothing else, to entirely forget their exchange. And Draco was left with the gradually settling reality that yes, he was a little heartbroken. Or more than a little.

It hit him hard, that revelation. Draco hadn’t ever fully acknowledged he’d had a heart to break, let alone that he could experience feeling deep enough for one to be broken. That such would pertain to another person? That it was his feelings for Harry that were making him so… discomforted?

It was not a favourable experience, yet understanding did help some. At least it eased some of the confusion surrounding his muddled thoughts. He could lay the blame a little, as illogical as such an approach may seem. And now he felt more angry than anything else. Angry with himself, and angry with Harry. If he’d been rejected, the least Harry could do would be to outright tell him he was so. Couldn’t he afford him that? Was that too selfish to ask? Didn’t Harry always preach that they were ‘friends’? Draco didn’t really understand chivalry or Gryffindor loyalty and mindless persistence, but he’d thought he’d been favoured by Harry enough that he wouldn’t simply drop Draco in an instant of uncertainty.

Draco sat with grudges for a long time. It was a character flaw, or a benefit of his character, depending on whether one asked Theodore or Millicent for their opinion. It was, in fact, his very ability to hold a grudge that had manifested in the infamous rivalry between himself and Harry in their youth. Draco had once been quite proud in the knowledge that it was _his_ grudge that had triggered their volatile relationship. Harry had been an active participant, true, but Draco had started it.

The understanding that his ‘grudge’ had likely been fuelled by much different thoughts indeed was… it was confronting. Draco wasn’t particularly fond of the idea that his supposed feelings could act so out of his control. He could accept that he’d been infatuated, but becoming invested enough to be heartbroken upon realising those feelings weren’t returned?

Unforgiveable.

Which was probably the main reason that he avoided Harry. He simply didn’t want to face that reality. After leaving his mother’s house on the weekend, he did his utmost to simply plough through his daily work routine on a static, unchangeable plane. He would get over it with time. He would pull himself together, disregard the temporary yet admittedly intoxicating relationship he’d shared with Harry, and move on. Things would change eventually of their own accord. Draco just had to give them time. He had to wait for a catalyst.

Unfortunately for Draco, when that catalyst arose it was far more explosive than he’d expected. Far _worse_ than he’d expected.

New Year’s had come and gone with ceremony yet not on Draco’s part. The week following was rife with the procedural routine of initiating said New Year, and was nothing if not boring. Boring, that is, except for the token squads embedded in operations. Though protocol dictated that no one besides those actively involved in any one operation would be made aware of the specifics, there was a general air of tension, or excitement, or determination that always pervaded the offices of the DMLE at varying degrees. That ambiance seeped its stretching tendrils about the surrounding employees, both those involved and excluded. The feelings were generalised.

Monday morning saw such an instance arise. From the moment Draco stepped from the elevator onto his department’s floor he was assaulted by the tension in the air. That tension was only made more profound by the bustling bodies that criss-crossed the hallways, dipping into doorways with arms laden by papers or barking orders through closed doors. There were far more people present than Draco had ever witnessed at eight o’clock in the morning, and he would know. He was always one of the first to check in.

They looked harried. Faces were tight with stress, dark smudges smeared beneath eyes and brows crinkled into heavy lines. Each movement was made in haste, striding rather than walking, some of the gopher interns even running. And though Draco couldn’t make out anything besides the odd word of two throw across the department, there was a constant buzz of verbal noise overlaying every surface and pervading every room.

Edging warily towards his own office, Draco snapped his eyes between details. A clutch of papers in the tight grip of an Auror, the familiar face of another before he disappeared behind a closed door. It was far from his own door that he’d reached one very resounding conclusion: the employees, the Aurors and the investigators, all those gripped by motion and jittery nervousness, were assigned to the same case. And he recognised them for their common theme.

Something had happened at the Devon. There’d been an incident with the Dartmoor Coven.

And Draco would have no idea of how to find out exactly what that was. But he needed to know.

He hadn’t realised he’d paused outside the investigators common area until Yorkley spoke up at his side. “Crazy, isn’t it?”

It must have been the first time in Draco’s life that he felt even close to being grateful for the other man’s presence. Turning towards the younger man – he’d _finally_ rid his cheeks of his attempt at a beard – he affixed him with an unwavering stare. “What happened?”

Yorkley shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, but Draco retained his stare unshakeably. He shrugged. “You know I’m not actually allowed to know anything. I’m not on the operation.” For once he didn’t sound all too upset about the fact, which struck Draco as even more worrisome. The other man had been itching to set his teeth into any and every morsel of intelligence he could glean.

He was very definitely not eager in that moment. If anything he seemed filled with dread. Draco frowned at him, which only seemed to unsettle him further. “You might not be on the squad, but you know something.”

Shifting from foot to foot, Yorkley very deliberately leaned against the wall. The motion would have been casual had he not been visibly thrumming with tension. “I… might.”

“Do I need to peel it from your tongue?”

Yorkley grimaced. “Please don’t." 

“Well?”

There was another pause, another awkward shift of his feet, and then it all came gushing out. “I don’t know all the facts,” Yorkley uttered in a hushed tone, his eyes flickering sideways as though to scout for any potential eavesdroppers. “But this is what I’ve heard. Apparently Dartmoor was riddled with Dark witches and wizards over the weekend. The squad on call – the Elites, too – they had to pull almost double their number to contain them. Still haven’t, from what I’ve heard. I mean, it’s still ongoing. Since _Saturday_ , this is.” He swallowed audibly, his face paling to a sickly pallor.

Draco frowned. There was something… “What aren’t you telling me?”

Yorkley flashed him a guilty sidelong glance. “How did you -?”

“Tell me.”

A petulant grumble was followed by another pause before Yorkley spoke once more. When he did, his voice was so hushed it was nearly a whisper. “I heard it got really bad. That it is, _really_ bad.”

“How bad is bad?” Draco hissed through clenched teeth. He could feel his own tension rising, climbing with every second of wait. A situation at Devon meant… it meant that… the squad there, there were the Elites, which meant -

“There was an accident. It was pretty bad, I heard,” Yorkley finally continued. His face had, impossibly, paled even further. “I mean, really bad. There was something of an all out battle or the likes, and there were injuries. Apparently, someone even thought there may have been a fatality –“ 

Draco didn’t hear anything further. Whether that was because Yorkley stopped speaking, because his ears stopped listening or because distance cast the words into obscurity he didn’t know. For as soon as he realised what was happening, what Yorkley was suggesting, he was away. Draco had not run in public in years, and yet in that moment he couldn’t stop himself.

He ran as though hellhounds were on his heels. The only thought that passed through his mind was the recurring mantra of _Harry, Harry, please be alright, please be okay, I haven’t even told you how angry I am at you yet…_

Until that moment, Draco didn’t think he’d accepted he’d truly been in love with Harry. But it was suddenly so simple. So unfathomable that he couldn’t feel anything but. His heart thudded a violent drumming in his chest, his pulse throbbing in his ears and gasping breath the only thing he could hear.

The moment he bolted through the atrium he slid into the nearest fireplace. The crackle of flames was a distant echo, barely heard. And the second he tumbled from the Floo, he Apparated with a crack.

Draco didn’t even have to consider the coordinates for Dartmoor. All he had to do was think of Harry.


	10. Should Have Guessed

There was a feeling in the air. A viscosity, or thickness. A thrumming.

From the instant Draco landed in Dartmoor he was overwhelmed by the sheer amount of power throbbing in the air. That was the first thing he noticed.

The second was that he was nowhere near where he’d anticipated he’d appear. Not his given coordinates, nowhere in sight of the Two Bridges Hotel, and certainly nowhere near Harry. There was, in fact, not a soul in sight. 

The reason for that was very apparent with a gentle probe of his wand and a reaching of his magical senses. Anti-Apparation wards. Evidently, the range of the dome encapsulating Two Bridges had expanded. The air before Draco was pulsing with them. Like layers of gossamer curtains obscuring a window, they hung suspended in the air. Where Draco stood seemed to be the very edge of them, and that edge was in the middle of nowhere. A quick glance around ascertained that much.

The moor, seemingly barren, were still covered in a blanket of whiteness with the persistence of winter. Even in the early morning sun, the prevalent draperies of ice and cold tinged even the darkest mounds and eruptions of rock with pales hues. Clumps of trees in the distance wore frozen crowns and the thin wind carried a bitter edge to it that January had not yet alleviated.

Draco barely felt the cold. He doubted he would have even had he been without his cloak and scarf and his gloves that remained firmly affixed to his fingers. His mind was still chanting in its mantra, eradicating any and everything else and allotting it as ‘less important’. He had to know where Harry was, to know he was alright, to confirm with his own eyes that he wasn’t injured or, worse still, dead. The very thought caused his stomach to rebel.

Obsession didn’t even begin to cover it. When, exactly, had he become so all-consuming in his fixated?  
  
Raising his wand, Draco held it aloft on the flattened palm of his hand. “Point Me, Harry Potter.” With a faint jostle, the wand shuddered into movement. It spun like a compass, whizzing in spins for a moment before jolting to a stop with a stab in a north-easterly direction. Without another thought Draco started towards it.

Some part of him, in the back of his mind that was not focused intensely upon coordinating his legs in the most efficient fashion and ploughing over the uneven grounds as fast as possible, that was not contemplating the worst possibilities, marvelled at his own actions. Draco could count on one hand, on half of one hand, the number of people he would willing put his safety on the line for. Those people – or person, really – were exclusively restricted to his family. And maybe Pansy, but that was simply because she was basically his sister in all but blood. But he would likely hesitate even for her. Certainly for the rest of his friends. Draco wasn’t idealistic enough to believe in some deep-seated altruism within himself. He knew he was not a truly ‘good’ person, and didn’t particularly want to be. Goodness was overrated, and usually resulted in a very personal death.

Self-preservation took the place of self-sacrifice in Draco’s behavioural repertoire. So it was a marvel in itself that he charged headlong in the direction that his wand pointed. Harry, the captain of the Elites, the squad at the very centre of the operation and ever in the thick of things, would certainly be in a dangerous situation. A situation whose threat would very likely shift its attention towards Draco should he happen upon them. How could Draco even consider charging into that? To risk himself and his wellbeing for someone else? 

The short answer? He didn’t consider it. It was a compulsion. Draco simply had to be there. And that was that. His mind could reach no alternative conclusion.

The Anti-Apparation wards extended further than he’d anticipated. Draco was panting, minutes into running as fast as he could realistically maintain, before he sensed a spike in the magic around him.

And spike it was. A sharp climax, like a mountain abruptly sprung from a monotonously flat plane. Draco stepped into the light of magic and was instantly bathed in throbbing waves ten times as potent as that which already shrouded him. There were no tell-tale signs in his surroundings, no visible features to indicate causation, but it was certainly there. Draco slowed slightly, panting, and glanced around himself. 

Nothing. There was still nothing.

He kept running.

It took another five minutes of chasing the direction his wand pointed him before he stumbled upon someone. And it was a blessing that Draco was the one to see them first, for they were no Auror, of that he was sure. As it was, Draco had already hefted his wand into his hand and pointed it towards the slender young woman before she’d noticed him. When she did, everything happened almost too fast to see.

A curse fired. Draco deflected. In a casting more reflex than intentional he retaliated with a _Stupefy_ , showering light shooting towards the woman. With a crack like the limb of a tree tearing loose, she was flung backwards. She crumpled to the muddy snow of the ground, a pile of limbs and black robes that almost blended into the terrain.

Draco paused, almost too stunned by the rapid turn of events to compute what had happened. His breath still panted, but as much from surprise as exertion from his run. When reality did set in, a flood of knee-knocking fear coursed through him. It became a physical strain to remain standing.

This. This was the reason he was an investigator. Draco didn’t perceive himself as a coward but this… he was certainly not courageous either. He would never have the capacity to respond adequately in a fight to the death. Why would he? Why would he ever – ever again – land himself in such circumstances? Draco had spent the last years of the war thoroughly over exposed to life-threatening situations. He’d had his fill for a lifetime. Why would he…?

 _For the right person,_ a condescending voice in the back of his mind offered. And that single thought was enough to urge Draco back into action, in spite of the scowl it brought to his lips. He barely spared the woman – she must have been one of these so-called Dartmoor Coven witches – before he was racing towards the direction his wand pointed once more. 

Yorkley had been right. It truly was dangerous. Very dangerous, if the witch would act upon a complete stranger before speaking. No wonder they’d pulled ranks for extra numbers.

It took another three minutes and a second confrontation with a black-robed stranger for Draco to stumble upon the real mess. And when he did it almost floored him. Clambering up a rocky incline that seemed to have arisen from nowhere, he just reached the apex when the battle swept into view.

It truly was like a battlefield. Widespread and far-flung, duels battled furiously like a scene from a medieval play. There must have been dozens of them, interspersed almost as far as the eye could see. Sparks soared, shields sprung into existence, and collisions resounded with the echoes of thunder. Aurors against the black-robed Coven, only their garbs distinguishing them in any certainty and even then only just. For the attacks, the dodging and constant movement of the Coven members, were almost too fast, too confusing, to follow.

And throughout it all wove the distinctive figures of the Elites. Distinctive because Draco sincerely doubted that a bear, a horse, a dog, a puma, would fight so favourably and participate so actively in the fight. It was a testament to how severe the situation was that they even showed themselves; weren’t their Animagus forms supposed to be a secret?

But from his perch Draco could pinpoint exactly why. The Coven were strong. They knew how to fight, and they were holding their own. But more than that, they weren’t foolishly chivalrous either. There was no undying loyalty and courage spewing forth from within them. As Draco watched, a tall man with burly, hunched shoulders cast a trio of hexes that flung his opponent ten feet in the air. He didn’t pause to finish the job, however. He turned, and he ran.

It was not a gesture of cowardice. There was nothing but hard determination on the man’s face as he raced from the scene. He was acting entirely in practicality, for himself but also for his purpose. That much was apparent. Draco could relate to that; there was no need to fight when other options were available.

But before he’d even worked up a significant pace, the Elites were on him. It was the deer, the doe, that reached the scene ahead of her fellows, and for the first time Draco considered the stupidity of confronting such a creature. In leaps and bounds, she darted across the uneven terrain and, in a spring like a bird launching into flight, bodily threw herself at the fleeing wizard. Hooves jarred and the weight of her crashing into him was nearly audible even from such a distance. The collision tumbled the fleeing wizard from his feet and, in the moment that he struggled to regain his bearings, the doe had already resumed her own and transfigured into her human shape.

Ophelia El Morag. The pureblood, prestigious witch, heiress of the El Morag fortune, was a doe. Draco would never have guessed. He would never have suspected her of being an Animagus, but in that instant it seemed to fit her perfectly. Not, however, the delicate, shy insinuation of the form. Ophelia’s face was a mask of hard determination, more resolute even than the Coven wizard’s, and there was no hesitancy when she hefted her wand. Their battle began anew.

The Elites, they were rounding them up. Evidently, with the Anti-Apparation wards the Coven members couldn’t leap from the scene into safety. They had to flee on foot. And the four-footed, winged and bounding forms of the Elites were far more adept at giving chase than their human fellows. Even as Draco watched, he spied a large barred owl hightail it after a pair of witches and pin them in seconds from on high, transforming back into a human before his feet had even touched the ground. Ivan Schnoder, it was. Schnoder was the owl.

Another Draco wouldn’t have picked.

It was difficult to tell who was winning. There didn’t seem to be a clear objective in the minds of the Coven members except attack then escape, and as such the Aurors appeared to be fighting a faceless battle. All that Draco could deduce was that most were attempting to flee, and yet at times they would pool their efforts to target one particular Auror, seemingly at random, and blast them in a vicious rain of curses. Even as Draco grazed his eyes over the fighters, he could make out bodies strewn across the ground. He wasn’t sure if they were dead, yet desperately hoped they weren’t. He was not fond of death. Fortunately, Aurors didn’t kill unless absolutely necessary, and the downed Coven members significantly outweighed the Aurors. That was a relief, especially given that Draco couldn’t spy Harry anywhere.

There were more Aurors than Coven, that much Draco could tell. And yet even so they were struggling. The reason for that was evident in a moment of observation; the Aurors emphasised defence and capture to the impediment to their fighting abilities. They would always back down behind their shields if faced with an overpowering force, would always leap to the aid of a fellow in dire need rather than pursue a fleeing target. Thank Merlin for the Elites, because the Coven seemed to realise this and were using it as a means of escaping. The Animal-Aurors had their work cut out for them in chasing them down.

Draco’s eyes scanned the field with purpose. He flinched at each moment that he observed a spell strike flesh, closed his ears to each cry and snarl that ripped through the air. There was one reason and one reason only that he was here; Draco didn’t care about _any_ of the other Aurors in that moment. He didn’t care about his career, or what his superiors would think of him for crashing into the scene. There was no way he could stay away.

His feet were carrying him forwards before he even realised he’d fallen into motion. Skidding down the slight decline onto the battlefield plateau, Draco fell into the thickness of the fight. His wand snapped up of its own accord, and those reflexes that he had never tailored yet rode on his innate sense of self-preservation acted for him. He cast a shield, fired an _Expelliarmus_ , hexed the senses out of an assailant and tripped the legs from beneath anyone who fell in his way. He battered aside fiery curses and ducked beneath those that slipped past his guard, and ploughed onwards. And throughout he kept his eyes peeled.

It was almost on the far side of the battlefield, as the thickness of the fighters, attackers and defendants alike, began to lessen that Draco found him. And his frantically throbbing heart nearly clambered its way from his throat.

Harry was stationed between a trio of attackers, a witch and two wizards. Spells fired from every direction, and it was only with the sheer mastery of Harry’s defensive abilities that he managed to deflect them. He spun like a dancer, wand aloft and dark red robes swirling around his legs like the wings of a bird. His face was a mask of flat concentration, his lips pressed firmly together even as he flung counter-curse after counter-curse, erecting shields in the space of a heartbeat.

And yet he wasn’t winning. Draco could see that much. He wasn’t losing, but there was no steady overwhelming of the foe. How could there be, with three on one? And though those three acted little by way of coordination, there was only one possible outcome. Someone had to tire first, and it didn’t take any great powers of deduction to determine who that someone would be.

Draco threw himself into the midst of the fight without a second thought.

It flowed so easily then. He never would have conceived that _fighting,_ and fighting _alongside_ someone, would ever be so natural for him. Or perhaps that was simply because he fought with Harry. For all their rivalry in the past, for all their taunts and provocations, they knew one another in a way that few did. Draco knew how Harry would respond to an attack as well as any of his closest friends would. Possibly more, given that he’d been on the receiving end of those attacks on more instances than he could count. The shift in stance, the slight lift to his arm, the tilt to his head; they were all indicators of action as indicative as the words of a spell themselves. And Draco could read them all.

Harry spared Draco only a brief glance, an expression of surprise that had a faintly horrified edge to it, before he was forced to turn his full attention onto countering curses once more. But that brief glimpse, that show of expression and upwelling of emotion that played so clearly across his face, was a more profound indicator of meaning than any words could have conveyed in such a limited time. And as Draco turned towards the attackers, positioning himself back to back with Harry, he felt a smile of satisfaction spread across his face. In spite of the danger, in spite of the insanity that had obviously gripped him at leaping directly into harm’s way, Draco felt delight flood him.

Harry had looked worried. Worried for Draco.

Evidently, Harry still cared enough to be worried.

Draco almost felt like he could fly. He could certainly win a duel.

The fought as though their lives depended on it, which they likely did. Those protective reflexes that Draco had pulled as if from nowhere arose and acted for him, and alongside them he added a string of attacks. None of them connected, but at least they served to turn the tides of the battle a little. The Coven members that surrounded them were no longer on the verge of overwhelming. If anything, they were retreating, withdrawing from Draco’s and Harry’s aggressive defence. Draco felt a fierce jolt of satisfaction as the witch stumbled a step in retreat at one of his more explosive counter-curses.

They were winning. They were so close Draco could almost taste it. Another volt of delight coursed through him as, with the combined efforts of Harry’s Shield Charm, Draco deflected the taller wizard’s curse and retaliated with a vicious attack of his own. The man crumpled to the floor in a heap, downed.

It could have been the jubilation of the moment. It induced overconfidence, acted as a distraction. Or it could have been that, seeing their fellow fall, the other two members of the Coven assumed a heightened state of ferocity.

For whatever reason, Draco was taken by surprise when the underhanded curse struck him. He wasn’t even sure which of the two remaining attackers had aimed at him. All he knew was that, in one moment he could feel Harry’s warmth at his back, solid and reassuring, supportive as he formed the words of his next spell on his lips. The next, he was thrown from his feet. Like a ragdoll discarded and cast carelessly to the side, Draco was bodily lobbed twenty feet through the air.

The ground struck heavily. He struck his shoulder, jarred his hip, cracked his forehead on a brutally jagged rock. The force of ice-hardened ground impacted every available surface of his body. For an instant, even Draco’s vision darkened. All that he could sense was the erupting pain in his muscles and hear the amplified cries of distant spells, of anger, of fear. 

He skidded to a stop in a throbbingly, tumbling, painful heap. For an instant he simply lay there. Simply hurt. His limbs twitched with the effects of the curse and it was only because his hands seized on his wand that he maintained it at all. Draco had never been one to throw himself about into a tussle. Such base Muggle modes of aggression were far too inelegant to be deemed acceptable. It was probably the shock to his system, that his body was being so ill-treated, as much as the actual pain that stunned him.

A distant echo brought him back to reality. Gradually, light filtered back into his vision. A white light of… of clouds. He was looking upwards at the sky. It was only then that he realised he was lying flat on his back, limbs sprawled, with the world slowly roiling around him. 

“…co… Draco…. Draco…!”

Harry’s voice. Even through the pounding in his head, the spiking throbs searing through his forehead, Draco could discern the nature of that voice. He always would. Had always been able to. Even when he believed he _hated_ Harry, he knew he’d been able to distinguish his voice from any other. That certainty was validated when, to the sound of footsteps thudding towards him, Harry skidded into view. His face was little more than a shadow on the backdrop of glaring light, but Draco could still make out the tightness of fear, his forehead wrinkled and eyes tight with worry. It shouldn’t have made Draco as pleased as it did. What was wrong with him, that Harry’s concern would make him so satisfied?

Harry was saying something, but was speaking too fast for Draco to make out. Or perhaps he was as hysterical as his expression suggested. For it was. He did seem bordering of hysterical, and all of that worry, all of the fear and concern, was over Draco.

Until it wasn’t. Draco frowned as Harry’s face disappeared from his direct line of sight. In muffled tones, he heard the distinct growl of _“Protego!”_ It said something for his heightened stress that Harry had to speak the defensive spell.

With more effort than he would have anticipated it to take, Draco heaved himself into sitting. It took two tries for the world to spin in a violent whirl around him. Arms splayed on either side of him, he wobbled into a wavering sitting position and blinked rapidly to clear the blurriness from his eyes.  
  
Harry stood before him, back to him and stance poised, grounded. Draco couldn’t see his wand, but he could make out the shields he erected at every curse that soared towards him. The attacking witch and wizard stood just past him, faces pulled into nearly identical expressions of determined aggression. The gleaming light in their eyes was illuminated with every released curse, every shower of fireworks that exploded upon impact with Harry’s shields. They must have known something that Draco didn’t, for there was a vicious triumph playing across their faces, weaving through the determination.

It immediately made Draco furious. 

Harry couldn’t attack. He was too busy defending, protecting both himself and Draco. But Draco had no such restrictions. And his rising fury gave him focus. How _dare_ they try to attack Harry! To attack _his_ Harry. No one was allowed to do that, no one except Draco. That was the way it was and the way it always had been. The only one who could ever bully Harry was Draco, _ever_ , and Draco would mow down anyone who assumed otherwise.

He didn’t need words. The intention coursed through him clearly, prevailing even through his aches and pains. His arm only wavering slightly as he lifted his wand, other arm trembling just a little as he struggled to remain seated upright. In a shower of silver-white, the spell launched from the tip of his wand towards the witch. She didn’t see it coming. Perhaps Draco truly did look as incapable as his trembling limbs and increasingly complaining head suggested. 

It didn’t help her in the slightest when the spell impacted. Right in the chest, exactly where Draco had aimed. The woman didn’t fly into the air, didn’t roll backwards like a practicing tumbler. Like a flat board she hardened, straightened, and fell flat on her back. 

And then there was one.

The remaining wizard wasn’t stupid. Nor was he slow. The instant he realised his companion was down, he dropped all pretence of attack. With incredible speed, he spun on his heel and fled. Harry and Draco were left in the abrupt lull, a static stillness, as their opponent rapidly drew into the distance across the moors.

Harry didn’t race after him as Draco had expected. Instead, he spun towards Draco so fast that he almost feared he considered him as another attacker. But he didn’t attack. Instead, he fell to his knees besides Draco, his face once more a complicated mish-mash of worry and fear, confusion threaded throughout. When he reached a hand out to touch Draco’s shoulder, his fingers trembled almost as much as Draco’s own arms wavered. Draco had never seen him so… scared. In fact, he couldn’t recall ever seeing Harry scared.

“You…” Harry began, but he broke off when his voice broke. His lips still worked, attempted to speak, but enunciation seemed beyond him. Finally he merely dropped his head and shook it as though ridding himself of jumbled thoughts.

Draco could have revelled in being the centre of Harry’s attention. After weeks of being ignored, or noticed only to be faced with an expression of betrayal, it was like seeing the sun after a winter of darkness. A very big part of his mind was ecstatic with that attention, in spite of the pain Harry was so obviously feeling. But another part, a surprisingly rational part, was locked on the steadily dwindling figure of their opponent wizard, eyes narrowing with the knowledge that he was getting away. 

Lifting a trembling arm, Draco gestured towards the fleeing man. “He’s escaping.”

Harry spared a glance over his shoulder. Draco couldn’t see his expression, but the shrug he gave in response was indication enough of his opinion on the matter. “Let him.” 

“I believe that goes directly against your cause.”

“I’m more concerned about your welfare at the moment than a single escaping wizard, you prat,” Harry retaliated, and when he turned towards Draco it was with an expression of anger this time. Not hateful anger, but that concerned anger. It was, selfishly, cruelly and impossibly, one of the most glorious sights Draco had ever seen. He simply loved Harry’s anger.

Merlin, but he was twisted.

That brief reward was enough to urge him to fight against every instinct to simply bathe in the moment of Harry’s attention. Arching a sceptical eyebrow and struggling not to wince under the pain it speared through his head, Draco affixed Harry with a stare. “I doubt Krax would be too happy about that.”

“Krax can go and bugger himself for all I care.”

Draco smirked weakly. “Much and all as I appreciate that mental image, I have to refute your suggestion.” He gestured towards the nearly disappeared wizard once more and nearly tipped over sideways for the lack of his own physical support. “Although I don’t know how you’ll manage, not with these Anti-Apparation wards erected. Maybe send one of your Animagus Elites after him. Weasley could possibly run him down.” He couldn’t help the snort at his own suggestion. Weasley, competent? Just barely.

Harry regarded him worriedly. The anger was still there but his concern was more apparent. He didn’t even spare the wizard a second glance, which only added to Draco’s warped sense of satisfaction. “I’m not leaving you.”

“Merlin, Potter, I’m not incapable.”

“You are at the moment." 

“I most certainly am not,” Draco replied, striving for affronted coolness. “Get your arse moving already.”

“I just said I’m not –“

“Dammit, Potter, don’t make me go and ask Weasley myself. I don’t much fancy talking to a dog, nor asking for its help.”

Harry silenced. A brief flicker of amusement interrupted his mask of worried anger. He seemed to war with himself for a moment, chewing on his lower lip in a way that Draco had always found distracting, before finally rising abruptly to standing. “Alright. But I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”

Draco rolled his eyes. He immediately regretted it as it sent a sharp pain lancing through his temple. “I can assure you, movement is the last thing on my mind.”

Another flutter of amusement touched Harry’s lips, but only for a moment. It was followed by a similarly brief glimmer of uncertainty, of a different kind of concern. As though he was still at war with himself, still questioning his decision. But that too faded a second later into steeled decisiveness. He spun on his heel, robes flaring in that impressive manner he seemed entirely unaware of, and he bolted. Not, however, back towards the greater mass of Aurors.

He ran after the wizard.

Draco didn’t have a chance to call after him, to curse and accuse of being an idiot. He barely had time to open his mouth at all, and when he did they died upon his lips. For mid-stride, Harry transformed.

It was a leap into the air. The flurry of robes thinned and morphed, constricting around his shrinking body. And leap though he did, flinging himself into the air ridiculously high, he didn’t come back down again. Wings spread and feathered body shot arrow-fast into the distance.

Jack fell upon the fleeing wizards trail like the hunting falcon that he was.

Draco couldn’t breathe. Had he not been so certain that the transformation had occurred, the _Harry_ had morphed into _Jack_ , he would have considered his eyes played tricks upon him. That perhaps the now increasingly demanding bruise to his forehead was scrambling his brains. But even addled, Draco doubted he could ever mistake Jack’s flight. He’d seen the sleek darting, the rapid flap of wings and the incredible speed at low level, agile flight that followed the undulations of the ground far too often to be mistaken. 

It was with a sense of disbelieving awe that he watched Jack hone in on the wizard. That he witnessed the distant figures of falcon and man, the attack of a bird of prey as, small though he was, he fell upon the man and downed him with a single snap of talons to skull. 

His mind short-circuited after that. Draco couldn’t quite recall at what point the battle ended, and whether that point was before or after Gareth McAviary approached him and asked if he was alright. The image of Harry morphing into Jack, of the merlin’s gloriously familiar flight, was imprinted on his mind. He could think of little else.

“Malfoy, what the hell are you even doing here?” McAvairy muttered as he crouched before him, peering worriedly at his forehead.

Draco could only shake his head in reply, which wasn’t a good idea as it sent the world reeling around him once more. A new mantra had taken up residence in his mind.

_What the fuck, Harry?_

Draco didn’t even know which part of the situation he questioned most.

~|=|~

The communal meeting and aftermath with Krax, whereby every Auror that had been in Dartmoor and witnessed or partaken in the battle was present, lasted for longer than Draco thought was entirely necessary. Draco found himself seated at the very back corner of the room, arms folded and glaring at the ground as Krax’s voice seeped into his ears.

He had places he needed to be, a person he needed to find and pin to the ground and bloody well _demand_ answers from. And instead he was embedded in the midst of overly enthusiastic yet now almost comically sombre Field Aurors as they were given the typical talk.

“Your efforts today were exemplary, ladies and gentlemen,” Krax said with the same solemnity that gripped just about every other member of the room. “I commend you on your efforts. We have now within our hold thirty-nine of the suspected forty-two members of the Dartmoor Coven. Congratulations.”

There was a swell of murmured satisfaction, of muted applause, in which Draco remained in his glaring match with the back of the seat before him. Krax called for silence with an upraised hand. “In the light of current circumstances, however, a delicate situation has arisen. As has no doubt escaped none of your notice, the top secret nature of the Elite Auror squad had been unearthed.” There was another rising murmur that Krax silenced again with another upraised hand. Draco had to smother a snort Krax’s turn-a-phrase; what were they, children playing Detective Aurors?

“Silence, if you would,” Krax continued, holding up his hand once more. “As would undoubtedly strike none as being unexpected, this secret is closely guarded. The Elites have for years maintained their covert status to great benefit of the Department. They have been a greatly-beneficial asset and it has been – and continues to remain – our most ardent desire to ensure that such a status continues. I trust I don’t need to outline what this entails.”

He didn’t. Draco didn’t need to listen to the murmurs around him to know that his suspicions were correct. He clicked his tongue at the whispers of ‘Keep or Forget’ that sounded around him but didn’t voice his objections. He understood the need for secrecy, even if he protested to the controlling approach that was taken. He was a Law Enforcer, after all, even if not of the Field kind. He’d taken his Vow of Confidentiality just like everyone else.

“I’ll ask each and every one of you to attend to me individually throughout the morning,” Krax continued. “I regret that until your Oaths or _Obliviate_ s have been enacted that you remain within this room.”

And that was how Draco found himself idling the morning away with nothing but his thoughts in the shuttered common area of the Field Aurors. He felt like a duck amongst geese in the collective presence of his distant colleagues, and resolutely kept his eyes trained upon the backs of the chair in front of him. He’d long since grown weary of the scuffed stain on the back, but couldn’t shake his attention from it.

The first port of call after the battle at Devon’s moors had been to relocate the seized criminals and to ensure the stability of the injured. Thankfully there were few enough of the latter, and even more thankfully no fatalities, but it still consumed a significant portion of the morning. Wands were confiscated, wrists bound and tongues tied in _Silencio_. They’d been passed along to the Warden sector of the law enforcers, a little seen and even less actively involved subset of the department closeted off Ministry grounds. There had been a very distinct feeling of ‘dusting one’s hands’ when the turnover had fully been completed.

After than Krax had closeted the collective group of defending Aurors in the common area and drilled them on their rights, their responsibilities, and the requests the DMLE had for those involved. Then, leaving with his direct subordinates in tow, he disappeared into his office. Only his deputy, Godestorm, returned to request the next participants in the Keep or Forget ritual. It was a procession line, with the numbers of waiters gradually dwindling as more where shunted into Krax’s office. None returned.

It wouldn’t have been so bad, the wait. Not really. Though Draco had been healed of all of his wounds – something he knew he would have been more than capable of doing himself yet let McAviary do for him – he still felt wearied from the morning. His initial fear, his determination, the shock of being struck, and his final, flooring surprise.

He had not seen Jack coming. Not from a mile off.

And that was the very problem. Draco had thoughts to air, considerations to raise, questions to jab at Harry-Bloody-Potter and demand answers of. Harry was Jack? How had that happened? He’d been Jack the entire time, every visit the merlin had paid to his home, and hadn’t said anything? Regardless of the fact that his Animagus abilities were supposed to be kept secret, Harry should have _told_ Draco.

How had Draco even missed that?

In his mind, Draco was running through every instant in which Jack had visited his home. Like raking with a fine-toothed comb, he sifted through each memory in search of signs, hints, suggestions that would have given the game away. And though a rational part of him considered that he was probably viewing the past from a very biased perspective, there were definitely points that stuck out.

The way Jack almost seemed to talk sometimes. His keen attentiveness that held more inquisitiveness and intelligence than should have been possible in a bird. There were all the times Jack had stolen from his very un-sparrow-filled dinner, or peered over his shoulder as he read a book, or scattered feathers as though deliberately baiting Draco or landed on paperwork like he knew exactly what he was doing. For Merlin’s sake, he’d slept on Draco’s bed!

Then there had been that time Jack had first attacked him, seemingly so randomly. When Draco considered it had actually corresponded _perfectly_ with Harry’s supposed and unwitnessed anger at Draco’s presence at Dartmoor… it made a lot of sense. Or at least it did now.

Then there was the moment weeks ago, when Jack had attacked him for the second time. Had honed in through the window like a dart chasing a target and assaulted Draco as he’d been… with that boy from the Falcon’s Nest. The entire sequence of that night didn’t really make sense to Draco, was still confounding, but he knew there was something there. Something he wasn’t seeing. And dammit, he wanted to know what it was. He felt nothing if not foolish for not suspecting something earlier. Jack was strange; he should have guessed.

And Harry-Bloody-Potter was very noticeably absent from anywhere. Just when Draco would have willingly and actively pinned down the bastard, he was nowhere to be seen.

Typical.

So Draco was left to stew in moody silence, mind flickering between images of Harry and Jack and morphing them together like two seemingly unrelated puzzle pieces that just clicked together seamlessly. He didn’t even spare a moment’s consideration for the Dartmoor Coven; it was hardly his problem, and he had in fact been deliberately excluded from the situation with his previous Oath. And the prospect of Krax rousing on him settled very distinctly upon the horizon? Well, he could deal with that when it came. For in the hours he spent waiting in the Field Auror common area, hunkered behind closed doors, his mind refused to veer from Harry and Jack entirely.

Harry and Jack. Merlin, they were the same bloody person. Bird. _Thing_.

Finally, quite suddenly, Draco found himself alone. The last of the Field Aurors disappeared through the door and not five minutes later Godestorm returned. The straight-backed, quiet man stood silently in the door for a moment, staring at Draco hard enough that he could almost feel it burning through him. Draco, raising his head, affixed the Deputy with an unwavering stare of his own. Let the short little man know he couldn’t be cowed.

“You’re up, Malfoy,” he said after at least two solid minutes of silent, unspoken exchange.

Draco could have remained where he was. He could have, simply to be objectionable. He was feeling in a particularly objectionable mood. But the fact that it was Godestorm who had broken their silence… well, that in itself felt almost like a victory to Draco. He would allow the opportunity to pass. Instead, he rose silently to his feet and, disregarding the Deputy entirely, swept past him and down the hallway into Krax’s office. He almost even managed to shut the door of the claustrophobic office behind him, locking the little man out, but his short, slim figure proved an advantage in this instance, slipping through the closing door like a worm. He didn’t appear concerned in the slightest by Draco’s attempt. 

Turning slowly, Draco regarded Krax before sliding into his own seat. The Head of Department appeared tired. Worn out in the way long, sleepless nights and too much work effected a man. His elbows were propped on the table, sleeves shucked halfway up his arms to reveal thick, hairy arms, and his chin resting upon his interlocked fingers.

As Draco settled himself into his seat, he could feel Krax’s weary regard as strongly as he could Godestorm’s intent stare. He ignored them both. Or at least he tried to, but such a resolution was a little difficult to maintain when studied under such intensity. Even harder to overlook when Krax spoke. “Why is it always you, Malfoy?”

His objectionable outlook was making him petulant, Draco knew. Raising his eyebrows he hooded his eyes as he stared back at Krax. “I don’t believe it is _always_ me.”

“Twice. Twice in the past two months you’ve been caught on restricted grounds – the same restricted grounds – without express approval from your superiors. The _same_ restricted grounds.” Krax spoke slowly and deliberately, as though Draco wouldn’t quite understand him if he didn’t. As though he spoke to a child. It set Draco’s teeth on edge.

“Twice in two months is hardly noteworthy,” he muttered, yet even to himself Draco sounded petulant this time.

Krax’s eyes closed and Godestorm, persistently quiet Godestorm seated to the side of his superior’s desk, uttered a snort. “That’s beside the point. If this is going to be a problem, Malfoy –“

“I can assure you it won’t be. Sir.” Draco interrupted. He ignored Godestorm’s sceptical glance for favour of fixing Krax with his full attention. “These were exceptional circumstances.”

Krax blinked at him slowly, face slipping into a visage of confused speculation and more than a little exasperation. “And what circumstances are these?" 

“Personal reasons.”

“Malfoy –“

“ _Sir_.”

The twitch of Krax’s nose, the tightening around his eyes and the clenching of his clasped fingers, indicated that Draco had pushed him too far. He knew that. But he couldn’t help himself. He was angry, and frustrated and… and… _dammit,_ he wanted to be out of here already. He wanted to hunt Harry down and demand answers. Krax was merely wasting his time. 

Taking a steadying breath, Draco released it in an audible sigh. “My… apologies, sir. I believe the blow to my head might have hit me harder than I thought. I understand completely if you wish to instil some form of punishment or disciplinary intervention for my actions. But…” He sighed again dramatically. “My reasons were my own and are, if anything, rather shameful at that. Please believe that I thoroughly regret them." 

The twitch still picked at Krax’s nose, but at least he didn’t look like he was going to snort fire anymore. He seemed to be steadying himself, calling upon some inner strength, before he answered. “You’re asking a lot, Malfoy.”

“I know, sir. I realise I put you in a difficult situation.”

“But you won’t waver in your resolve, will you?” At Draco’s silence, Krax nodded. “That’s what I thought.” His hands dropped to the table and folded tightly. “Right. Well, something has to be done. I doubt anything so drastic as an expulsion – you’re a damn good investigator and you know it; it’s not like we want to get rid of you – but we’re looking at perhaps a temporary suspension, Malfoy. Possibly even shucking you up with some bottom-of-the-barrel Scouring cases for a while. I can’t say for certain; Lurring will get the final call.” Krax quirked his lips to the side. He seemed almost apologetic for the fact. 

Draco didn’t mind. Not all that much, anyway. To be honest, so long as it wasn’t expulsion – or, nearly as bad, demotion – he would be content with anything. He’d known in some part of his rational mind when flying to Dartmoor, to Harry’s side, that he would be reprimanded for his actions. He’d only hoped for the best, while expected the worst.

Inclining his head, Draco maintained his silence. It lasted for all of a minute before Krax realised he wasn’t intending to reply. Glancing down at the scattering of papers before him – they looked to be prompts for the Oath Rod – as though searching for a script to continue the conversation, he opened and closed his mouth a few times before continuing. “Right. Now, regarding tonight. You know the drill. Oath or _Obliviate_?”

Was it really even a question? Draco didn’t need to consider it. The thought pained him almost as much as it frustrated him, that he wouldn’t be able to discuss the situation with Harry, that he couldn’t hammer him with questions about Jack – about his merlin form.

But anything was better than forgetting it all. That was intolerable.

“Oath, sir.”

Krax nodded his head, as though he’d been expecting it. He likely had been. The rod was already waiting on the table. He hefted it like a baton and offered one end to Draco. Draco grasped it, striving to ensure the motion wasn’t tentative. 

Krax didn’t need to glance down at the words typed onto the papers before him this time. He’d evidently conducted the ritual enough times that day to know it without needing the prompts. “Draco Malfoy, do you swear to breathe not a word to any individual, personal or public correspondent, about the events that occurred at Dartmoor National Park, Devon, as officially recorded to have passed on the tenth of January, two thousand and five?”

“I do,” Draco agreed mechanically.

“Do you swear to neither record or depict by modes of written, verbal, mental or physical communication of the reality you witnessed pertaining to the Elite Auror squad and their Animagus forms’ relevance to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement unless a trio of direct superiors should request such from you."

That damned trio. Draco would need to work at finding a loophole for that one. It was likely his best bet for being able to filch answers from Harry at all. “I do.”

“Do you swear to communicate not through written, verbal, mental or physical communication of the nature of the Elite Auror squad’s Animagus forms unless in complete privacy and under the express permission of the Animagus involved?”

Wait… what? Draco struggled to maintain his schooled expression. This, _this_ was the loophole he’d been hoping to search for. Krax offered it up to him on a silver platter. In privacy? That was hardly a problem. Draco had exactly zero intention of interrogating Harry with an audience. And as for permission, he would drag that from Harry whether he liked it or not. Blaise had always affectionately agreed that he was more than capable of drawing blood from a stone when he wanted to. Persistence was a personal characteristic.

“I do.”

Nodding curtly, Krax withdrew the Oath Rod from his hand and leaving nothing but a tingle in Draco’s fingers. With a sigh, he tossed it with the same carelessness that he always did into his desk draw, followed by the jumbled papers from the desk. Draco could almost hear Godestorm’s mental objections as he eyed the mess that now lathered the interior of the drawer. “Right. Well. Right. That’s that, then." 

“Am I given permission to leave, sir?” Draco asked. He was already rising to his feet.

Krax, still seated and appearing even wearier for having finished with the last of the Oaths, nodded. “Yes, yes. You’re all done. The rest of the day is off, Malfoy; all of the Aurors involved are taking it off.”

“Thank you, sir.” Perfect. Now he could spend the afternoon drilling Harry for answers. He turned to leave, but paused when Krax spoke once more.

“I’ll be talking to Lurring… perhaps later this afternoon. You should expect an outcome by tomorrow.”

“Thank you, sir,” Draco repeated. Honestly, and to the career-driven part of him surprisingly, he couldn’t care less. He simply wanted out of that office.

His hand had actually clasped the doorknob when Krax spoke once more. He had to fight back an exasperated sigh. “I heard what you did, by the way." 

Pausing, Draco froze. He slowly turned his head towards Krax. From the corner of his eye, he could make out Godestorm regarding him with an intensity equal to Krax’s. “I beg your pardon?”

“You. In the battle. You fought alongside Potter.” It wasn’t a question, but Krax seemed to be seeking an answer nonetheless. Draco didn’t give him one and he continued after only a moment’s pause. “Weasley told me.”

Draco felt his eyebrow’s rise incredulously. “Weasley?”

Krax nodded, the quiver of a smile twitching his lips suggesting he heard Draco’s thinly veiled incredulity loud and clear. “That he did. Said you did a bloody good job of it." 

“Did… he?” Draco couldn’t quite believe that.

The smile managed to curl Krax’s lips. “I’m not surprised to be honest, Malfoy. Perhaps you’d do well in with the Field Aurors. Or maybe we could even make an Elite out of you yet."

It was a tease. Draco knew the big man was simply teasing him. Too familiar, too friendly, was Krax. Everyone said it, agreed unanimously to the fact. Clenching his teeth together and thrusting aside the upwelling of dread at the very prospect of fieldwork, Draco smoothed his expression once more. “I don’t think so, sir.” And without awaiting a reply he tugged the door open and strode into the hallway.

It would take too long to search. The instant Draco clicked the door shut behind him he drew his wand from his pocket and held it aloft flat on his palm. The incident with Krax was already being shunted to the side as the present encroached upon him. That he was going to seek Harry, and he was going to do it now. In a mimic of his charm that morning, he cast a quick ‘Point Me’, and was soon striding at an almost-run through the department hallways.

It didn’t take all that long to find him. No one waylaid Draco in his search, for which he was grateful. Not even Yorkley, who appeared to be torn between gossiping with Yvonne Richardson and peering into the hallway leading to the Field Auror offices. It was clear to Draco at least that he was still caught up on the potential gossip, in the excitement and supposed horror of the morning’s operation. He was so focused that he barely glanced towards Draco as Draco strode past him. Evidently Yorkley didn’t know of Draco’s presence on the field.

That was exactly the way Draco liked it. He intended to keep it that way.

Harry was in his office. He wasn’t alone, but Draco barely even noticed Weasley and Abigail Sazty in their seats as he strode past them. Harry was leaning wearily on the edge of his desk, but to Draco’s eyes appeared less exhausted than Krax. The hint of tiredness faded the instant he lifted his chin at Draco’s entrance.

A strange expression flickered across his face. In the three steps Draco took to cross the office, he catalogued each emotion he could identify; surprise, lingering worry, relief, exasperation, annoyance, anger. There were more; Draco knew there were more. He couldn’t necessarily identify them, but he knew there were more. 

Yet he didn’t pause to try and discern them. He didn’t pause to glance towards Weasley at the redhead’s affronted “hey!” either as he pulled Harry after him from the room. His fingers grasped Harry’s wrist in a death grip, refusing any attempts at shaking loose.

Not that Harry made any. He was, instead, remarkably compliant. He didn’t speak as Draco dragged him from the office and kept pace as they made their striding way through the ministry to the Floos.

Draco only paused when they arrived at the fireplaces. He spared a moment to glance towards Harry, and when he did his resolve only hardened. So many questions sat on the tip of his tongue, and when he turned towards Harry he could see as plainly as if it were written across his forehead that Harry felt the same.

Harry’s face had cleared into a fixed mask of determination reminiscent of that he’d worn on the battlefield. He met Draco’s eyes flatly, lips clamped firmly closed. He didn’t need to speak, however. The very air breathed, “ _We need to talk”_.

Draco couldn’t agree more.


	11. This Foolish Dance

Draco stared down at Harry. And Harry stared right back at Draco.

It was a battle of wills if ever there had been one.

Barely five minutes from the ministry, barely moments after Draco had dragged Harry through his front door, and they were already at a stalemate. Draco should have expected no less. This was he and Harry he was considering. Of course they would be butting heads. Friendship be damned, they were always the ones who best managed to get under one another’s skin.

Draco slowly leant back against the edge of the table, body half turned towards Harry. He wouldn’t sit; he didn’t think he could, not with the tension running through him. Harry seemed to be regretting his decision to do so himself, his leg jiggling slightly with nervous energy and creaking the chair slightly with his movement. Or perhaps he wasn’t nervous. If anything he looked determined.

“I’m not saying anything until you give me some answers,” Draco repeated his statement of not three minutes past. Even to his own ears the words sounded the exact intonation as before.

Harry blinked slowly. “And I’m not giving you any until you give me some of your own.” Harry mimicked Draco in the repetition of his own phrase, but instead of falling into stoic silence this time continued. “And, unfortunately for you, I hold one over your head.”

Narrowing his eyes, Draco slowly folded his arms across his chest. “Do you now?”

Harry nodded decisively, in utter certainty. “You took an Oath this morning. You need my permission to discuss certain things.” The smile he gave Draco was small and if not quite smug, it was a near thing.

Draco clicked his tongue. In spite of himself he had to admire Harry’s approach. He’d certainly come a ways in developing his cunning streak over the years. Adolescent Harry wouldn’t have even considered such manipulation. To his frustration, Draco actually felt a flicker of satisfaction. He had to smother it before he unconsciously let it show.

“You know far too much about my Oath,” he grumbled instead, deliberately diverting his gaze from Harry’s. He didn’t want Harry to see that he was gradually folding into acceptance of the inevitable. “The Oaths are supposed to be confidential.”

From his periphery, Draco saw Harry nod. “Yeah, well, when those Oaths concern me, I think I have a right to know.”

“Presumptuous of you.” 

“Entirely.” 

Draco snorted. “At least you admit it.”

Harry nodded his head shortly. “Do we have an understanding then?”

Draco glanced towards him sidelong. “I’m sure I don’t know exactly what you refer to.”

“Don’t be obtuse, Draco. Start spilling.”

“Regarding what?”

Harry sighed. He seemed to deflate, one elbow falling onto the tale and his chin dropping atop his curled fist. “You’re a pain in the arse, you know that?” When Draco only nodded his head in acceptance of the compliment, he continued. “What the hell were you doing out there in the field, Draco? For the second time, at that. Honestly? Once wasn’t enough for you? Krax made you take an Oath the first time. You don’t think that was a bit of an indication that you shouldn’t be there?

Draco shifted in his lean against the table. He had known that Harry would ask that, but some part of him had desperately hoped that he wouldn’t. It was embarrassing, to say the least, not to mention difficult to answer given his sworn silence. Draco hadn’t realised how embarrassed he was at his own actions until his confusion and frustration had wilted enough for him to catch a glimpse of it.

It _was_ embarrassing. Embarrassment had long since replaced the anger that had gripped Draco over the past weeks. He’d charged headlong into a dangerous situation with the intention of ensuring Harry’s safety and, while he would never regret his actions, especially given the fix he’d found Harry in, it was still humiliating. It was, if nothing else, a desperate and thoughtless act of the infatuated. How could Draco possibly willingly explain that to Harry? It would make him seem incredibly pathetic, exposing a vulnerability that he was not prepared for even his mother to witness.

Sniffing, adopting a casual slouch, he shrugged. “Of course I know that. I’m not an idiot. I’ve been warned away from there." 

“Then why…?”

"Obviously,” Draco sighed, forcing the exasperation into his tone, “because I was concerned you’d wind up getting yourself killed.”

Harry was silent for a moment. “You were worried about me?”

“Concerned,” Draco emphasised. “Yes." 

“But why?” 

Eyebrows rising, Draco fixed him with an incredulous stare. “What do you mean why? I was under the impression we were friends.” Even the word tasted sour on Draco’s tongue, a lie to himself. He’d never wanted to just be ‘friends’ with Harry.

Harry shook his head slowly, but more in confusion than denial. “But you’ve been avoiding me for weeks now.”

Draco blinked. And blinked again, his own confusion rising. “ _I’ve_ been avoiding _you_?”

Harry nodded. “Since the night we went out for drinks. You’ve been –”

“No, _I_ haven’t been avoiding _you_. _You’re_ the one who’s avoiding _me_.” Draco almost hissed as he pushed the words through his teeth. Harry’s obliviousness was utterly infuriating.

Again Harry shook his head. “No, I haven’t. I didn’t want to approach you because you just seemed so… nonchalant.”

“Nonchalant?”

“We basically had a fight, Draco. A fight between friends, but it was still a fight. Or am I the only one who thought that?”

He wasn’t. Draco agreed whole-heartedly. They hadn’t exchanged harsh words or blows or reached any conclusion of such that they were officially off speaking terms like pubescent girls having a tiff. But it was definitely a fight of sorts. That much Draco knew. Only, he’d assumed that it was because Harry was angry with him. Or felt betrayed. Or had realised he didn’t want what Draco wanted and so felt too awkward to be around him anymore. 

“You were angry at me,” Draco said slowly. He kept his head slightly bowed but peered up at Harry intently with a sidelong stare. “I’m not entirely sure why, but you were angry at _me_. And personally, I was concerned for my wellbeing. Your anger is infamous around the DMLE, you know.”

That wasn’t entirely true, but Harry didn’t have to know that. In actuality, Draco was scared. And confused. More scared and confused that he’d lost Harry’s friendship and yet didn’t fully understand why than he was concerned for his own skin. But he could never voice those fears aloud. Never. 

“Of course I was angry at you,” Harry replied, waving a hand as though to brush aside Draco’s uncertainty. “We just kissed and within minutes you’d picked up another bloke and took him home with you. What the hell was I supposed to think?”

“What were _you_ supposed to think?” Draco parroted incredulously. He could feel his affront shifting in a gradual rise to anger. “You? What about me? After you’d basically shoved your tongue down my throat, you up and fled from the scene. I assumed you realised you wanted nothing more to do with me.”

“It wasn’t like that.” Harry’s cheeks flushed an impressive red, but Draco was unsure if from anger or embarrassment. “After what you said, I just assumed… I mean, it sounded like you… and then you just went up to the kid and took him home, so I thought… What the hell was I supposed to think?”

His temples pounding with his heartbeat, a skipping beat that echoed loudly in his ears, Draco strove for an unattainable calm. “You’re not making any sense.”

Harry sighed in a huff of frustration. He ran a hand hastily through his hair. “I _mean_ , Draco, that I’d literally just said that I wasn’t looking for any sort of… casual relationship. Then you kissed me and said we could bloody well be friends with benefits.” Another tug of fingers through hair. “And then you went and took the kid home with you. What the _hell_ am I supposed to think?”

Draco’s heartbeat still pounded deafeningly loudly. His skin still felt flushed and anger still bubbled. But throughout it all, like a dampening blanket, understanding dawned. And it all suddenly clicked into place. “You mean you thought I just wanted a physical relationship?”

“Don’t you?” The colour was still high in Harry’s cheeks, yet he appeared more on the edge of desperation than anger. His hand raked again and again through the side of his hair, mussing it even more than usual. He avoided Draco’s gaze, eyes fixed upon the table top. “Don’t you?”

Slowly half-turning towards Harry, Draco felt surprise replace, which rapidly faded into wonder. Perhaps faster than it ever had before, Draco felt his anger fade. He slowly shook his head, any embarrassment he might have felt over expressing his feelings similarly faded. It hardly even seemed embarrassing at all anymore. “No. No, that’s not what I want. I won’t deny that it’s a big part of it, but what I want is certainly more than just sex.”

 _Just sex_. Merlin, Draco had never thought to hear himself say those words aloud. Nor even to think them. But they were entirely true. And he was glad for his momentary courage in speaking them when Harry slowly turned his gaze towards him, glancing up at Draco with wary hope. “Bullshit.”

Draco huffed in surprise as much as amusement. “It’s not." 

“Yes, it is. You’re bullshitting me.”

“I’m not –“

"There’s no way you’re not –“

“Harry.” Draco fully turned towards him, placing palms flat on the table and leaning over him. “I am entirely honest. I want nothing more than to pursue a… relationship with you.”

It didn’t sound right, sounded stilted and too formal and entirely unnerving. Yet from the expression on Harry’s face, he didn’t think so. His chin had lifted and he stared at Draco with wide, unblinking eyes. His mouth had fallen open slightly, the picture of surprise. “You… really mean that?”

Draco shrugged one shoulder casually. The need to fall into sarcasm, into jibing, to relieve the tension in the air was all consuming. “Surely you know me well enough to know that I always speak with utter sincerity.”

Snorting, Harry’s expression immediately fell into exasperated amusement. “Yeah, right. Like when you said at the Falcon’s Nest that you wanted a ‘friends with benefits’ relationship?”

“I never said that. I said that I’ve never been one much for relationships.”

“And aren’t you?”

Draco shook his head. “Never before. I’ve never wanted one till now.”

A smile drew across Harry’s face. “And now?”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Feigned ignorance doesn’t suit you, Harry.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Sighing, Draco dropped his chin. It was as much in a dramatic show of his own exasperation as it was to hide the rising flush in his cheeks. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“Maybe, but I still want you to say it.” Draco could almost hear the laughter just restrained in Harry’s voice. 

With another sigh, Draco closed his eyes for a moment. He had to keep them closed to confess. “Yes. Yes, it is. I want that very much.”

Harry did laugh then, but it wasn’t in amusement. It sounded almost relieved, a sound of pure joy. Draco had to glance towards him, just to see the expression that accompanied it. It was worth the potential humiliation of revealing his own embarrassment. Harry’s face was the picture of delight, smile stretched widely and eyes closed as though revelling in the feeling. “Fantastic…" 

It took a moment for Draco to gather his thoughts. Clearing his throat, he pointedly raised an eyebrow. “I’m waiting.” 

Harry flickered his gaze up to Draco’s. “For what?”

“If I have to undergo such a horrifying revelation, then surely you should –" 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, you daft prat. Of course I do.” 

Draco had to pause to bite back his own immediate desire to grin like a fool. “Really? I wouldn’t have guessed.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Well, from the way you bloody well attacked me, and then avoided me for weeks, I’d have assumed quite the opposite.” 

“We’ve been through this, I wasn’t the one avoiding you.” Then Harry frowned. “Wait, attacked you?”

“Yes,” Draco said, his hand rising to pat at the phantom scars of the scratches on the back of his head. “Quite viciously, in fact.”

“What? When did I –“

“Oh, come on, Potter, don’t be an idiot now. When you were –“ Draco stuttered to a halt, catching himself just in time. With a wavering inhalation, he drew back from Harry to settle himself on the edge of the table once more.

Shit. That was close. The Oath still stood, and he didn’t fancy becoming riddled with pus-filled and aching boils for a slip of the tongue. He pressed his lips together tightly.

Harry frowned. “When did I…?” He repeated. Draco widened his eyes pointedly. There was a moment more of confusion before understanding thankfully cleared his expression. “Oh. Right. Sorry, I guess I should probably….”

“That might be best,” Draco agreed.

“I’m not sure of the exact words I’m supposed to use to give you permission to speak against your Oath,” Harry muttered, quirking his lips and considering. “I’ve never had to do that before, you know.”

“I doubt it matters so long as it is all encompassing. I don’t fancy being tripped up and winding up in St. Mungo’s for an induced malady.”

Harry’s lips quirked in a smirk this time, but he blessedly didn’t say anything more on the subject. “Right. Well, how about this: I give my permission for Draco Malfoy to converse in a verbal, mental and written manner with myself, Harry Potter, pertaining exclusively to the issue of my Animagus form.” He paused expectantly. “Do you think that should cover it?" 

Draco paused himself, waiting. He didn’t feel any different for the ‘permission’, no tell-tale tingle over his skin nor flood of understanding that, yes, he could mention Harry’s merlin form without repercussions. “I’m not sure.”

“Just give it a try.”

Scowling, Draco felt his lip curl. “It’s not your skin that’s on the line here.”

Harry smirked. “Stop being such a princess, Draco. It’ll work. Probably.” 

How could Draco back out of it now? After such a taunt, even followed by his very noticeable uncertainty, Draco was almost obliged to attempt it. “Alright.” He swallowed around the warning muteness on his tongue. “When you bloody nearly ripped my head off when you were in your bird form.”

There was a pause. Both Draco and Harry waited, breaths held uncertainly. Draco tried to ignored the scrutiny with which Harry studied him though it was a little difficult to overlook the very pointed scanning of his skin. “I… think it worked.”

“Do you have any knowledge of how long it takes to come into effect?” Draco asked.

Harry shook his head. “No idea. No one I know has been stupid enough to try and test it.”

“Thank you for your glowing compliment,” Draco scowled, though there was little heat to his words. “And you’re changing the topic. Explain, if you would.”

“Why I attacked you? I thought that was obvious.” Harry frowned, his good-humour immediately disappearing into disgruntlement. “Less than ten minutes after one of the best kisses I’ve had in my life, you picked up the nearest bloke you could find and took him home to shag him.”

Striving to ignore the repeated _best kisses, best kisses_ ringing in his head, Draco pursed his lips. “Well, can you blame me?”

“Believe me, I can and I do. What the hell, Draco?”

“Well,” Draco attempted, but even to himself it sounded like a pathetic splutter. “You’d just rejected me. I needed an outlet.” 

“So you decided to go and fuck the nearest thing on two legs?" 

“Don’t be ridiculous. I would never touch just anyone. I’m very definitely interested solely in male specimens, thank you.”

For all of Draco’s wit, Harry didn’t appear amused. He glared up at Draco resentfully. “It’s not funny, Draco, you bastard.”

And in that instant, Draco knew it wasn’t. He sincerely regretted taking Kevyn home, and not for the fact that it had amounted to nothing. Harry was very obviously hurt by the fact. And knowing that much was still a struggle for Draco to comprehend until he considered it in reverse roles. If he’d been in Harry’s place, seen Harry casually pick up just anyone right after a confusing and potentially hopeful encounter that had ended even more confusingly, how would he feel?

Pissed off, for one. Angry. Indignant. Horrified, even. Harry was his, he shouldn’t… he wasn’t allowed to…

 _Well, I suppose that answers my question_.

Steeling himself for the following – he would never get used to it, he was certain – Draco took a deep breath. “I know. And I… I’m sorry. I regret my actions.” At Harry’s continued sceptical glare, he leant towards him in an attempt to impress his sincerity. “I’m honest. I do regret it.”

“Because it didn’t work out?” Harry muttered accusingly. “Or because you got sprung? Because I saw you?

“No,” Draco replied with a sharp shake of his head. “Because it hurt you. I never intended that, Harry. Never.”

There must have been something in his tone, something Draco hadn’t quite intended but resounded anyway, for the glare slowly faded from Harry’s face to be replaced by wary consideration. “You really mean that?" 

“Do I have to spell it out for you?”

“I think you just did,” Harry murmured. A small smile touched his lips briefly. Draco felt a tidal wave of relief course through him. Another hex dodged. Thank Salazar.

Then, in an effort to avoid further putting his foot in it, Draco abruptly strove to redirect the conversation. “Alright, enough questioning from you. My turn.”

Harry nodded his head slowly. “I can see I’m going to regret giving you permission, aren’t I?”

“Damn right you are.”

Harry snorting. A moment later he took a fortifying breath, steeling himself. “Alright. Hit me with it.”

“Firstly.” Draco held up one finger. “Have you been spying on me in bird form?”

Blinking at him in surprise for a moment, Harry abruptly broke into a startled bark of incredulous laughter. “That’s your first question?”

“Just answer me.”

“Are you asking if I’ve watched you shagging any other blokes?”

“That is, indeed, included yet not exclusively what I refer to.”

Shaking his head, Harry pressed a fist over his mouth. It did little to stifle the chuckles that shook his shoulders. “No, Draco. I don’t use it to spy on you. Certainly not to watch you shagging other blokes. Hell, I wasn’t even sure you swung that way till you kissed me. Besides, you should have already known that; you never take people home with you. That’s why it was so surprising with Kevyn.” He paused thoughtfully at the mention of the boy whose name Draco had all but forgotten. “Besides, whenever I was anywhere near you as a merlin I made sure you invited me into your house." 

Draco narrowed his eyes. “Yes, you did at that, didn’t you?”

Harry dropped his hand to reveal his hidden grin. It was disarming and certainly succeeded in lessening Draco’s affront at the imposition. “Well, it’s cold outside, you know?”

“Why do you even do that?”

“Do what?”

“Visit me. Every Friday for… I don’t even know how long. And your injuries? Why do you come to me?” Draco paused, frowning in reminiscence. “Speaking of, why did you even come to me in the first place?” Draco hardly considered himself the most hospitable person, or the most generous. What possibly possessed Harry to come to him of all people he knew not?

Harry loosed a long, heavy sigh. He dragged a slow hand through his hair once more, but it seemed more weary and resigned than awkward. “Wow. That goes back far.”

“You’re telling me.” Draco was only faintly aware of just how much that understanding floored him. That Jack was Harry and had been Harry the entire time he’d known him. It was sitting detachedly on the edge of his consciousness and he couldn’t quite bring himself to accept it. It was almost too big to consider, and until that point Draco didn’t think he’d quite realised just how much of a significant part Jack had become in his life.

Harry sighed once more. “Perhaps I should start from the start.”

“That might be best.”

“Right.” Harry nodded, licking his lips. “Yeah. Right. So… God, I don’t even know. Right, so a couple of years ago – it was in the early days of the Elites – we were on a mission. We were still getting our sea legs, me and the squad. There were only seven of us at that stage; the rest came along about a month or two after.

“We were out Ipswich way on this mission. Closer to Woodbridge, actually. It was a bit of a nasty one. The group we were looking into were the aggressive kind and we got into a bit of a fix. Unfortunately for us – the three of us who went – they had Animagus detectors around the area.” Draco pulled a face in commiseration at the mention of the instruments. They’d become increasingly favoured on the market over the course of the last few years. “Well, as soon as me and my team got within firing distance they attacked us. We managed to avoid the worst of the spells but, since I’m a flier, when I was knocked from the sky it… hurt.”

Draco winced in sympathy. He had a moment to consider how much had changed over the years, that the thought of a bird – or more specifically _his_ bird – falling from the sky would cause him almost physical pain.

Harry noticed and gave him a small smile before dropping his eyes and losing himself in his retelling once more. “I couldn’t fly all too well, but I had to get away from the area. The wizards we were tracking set their own trackers on our tails so it was flee and avoid them or face the possibility of a confrontation.

“My team managed to scatter. Spatzy and Burgh, they’re not fliers so I don’t think they were hit quite so hard. It’s a general rule, though; if trackers target us in Animagus form we split. Preserve the secret of the squad and all, you know?

“I was pretty out of it, though. Flew in just about any direction that was ‘away’. I can’t remember getting to Smittson’s View. The next thing I knew I was waking up in the middle of the road with you leaning over the top of me and a wand pointed at my face.”

Harry shook his head, that small smile settling comfortably on his face. “There’s not really much you can do when you injure yourself as an Animagus. It’s either try and shift back into your human form, which is often pretty hard seeing as the injuries can be localised or specific to the animal itself. There’s sometimes no telling how that injury can spread or exacerbate with the transformation. 

“The other option is to just keep on as an animal until you’re all fixed up.” He shrugged, almost sheepishly. “I’ve always had a weirdly strong affinity with my merlin form. I don’t know why but Ron thinks it’s because of the flying. I don’t know, but at the beginning I actually found it harder to change back into being human than the other way around. If I’m injured, I usually get someone to patch me up when I’m still a bird and then transform back. It works… better.”

“And that’s where I came in,” Draco murmured. He didn’t realise he was going to speak until the words were out of his mouth

Tilting his head upwards towards him, Harry’s smile widened briefly, fondly. “Yeah. That’s you. I was surprised, actually. I mean, we’d never been even close to friends in the past. More the opposite. I’d have expected you to just kill me instead.”

Draco shrugged. He wasn’t going to offer the reminder that he had considered it. Considered it long and hard, in fact. Harry likely knew that anyway. Even as an Animagus he would have been able to hear and understand the words Draco had exchanged with Millicent. “Well, it’s not like I knew who you were. If I had, I might have acted differently.”

Harry chuckled, shaking his head as he dropped his chin once more. “No, I don’t think you would have,” he muttered, more to himself than to Draco. Draco could only agree; Harry was right. Even when he’d first happened upon Jack Draco hadn’t hated Harry. He’d been… confused by him. By his actions in the war and afterwards, with Draco’s trial. Not friendly, no, but that hatred he’d once harboured had certainly died.

He drew his attention back to Harry when he started speaking once more. “I was wary at first, you know. I didn’t know what to expect. I kept thinking all through that first week that you’d just change your mind and decide to kill me. But then you didn’t, and I began to see you acting really… differently to how you used to. It was strange. Really weird, actually. Sort of like you weren’t wearing your pompous bravado as much.”

“I don’t wear ‘pomp’ or ‘bravado’,” Draco sniffed disdainfully. “I assure you, Harry, my character is as horrendous as you have always considered it to be.”

Harry shook his head with a smile, evidently not convinced at all. “Right. Well, whatever. After a few days, I couldn’t help myself. I just had to push it a little bit, to see how much of how you acted was really you and how much was just another act.” 

“You little bastard,” Draco scowled. He could very clearly remember that first week with Jack, the little annoying jabs that seemed to pick at his sanity. The persistent attempts to push him just a little further with his presumptuous occupation of Draco’s house. “I should have guessed it was you from the start. You always did know how to push me the wrong way.”

“You never would have guessed,” Harry disregarded. “Not in a million years.” His smile faded slightly as he turned his attention retrospectively once more. “I stayed with you till I was all patched up. Then, figuring I’d terrorised you enough, I took myself away. That was supposed to be the last of it.”

“Obviously it wasn’t,” Draco supplied.

“Obviously. One of the siblings of the Ipswich wizards became active a couple of months after her brothers was detained. We were sent out again, and I had another… accident. That girl, she was a lot fiercer than her brothers, and there was only one of her.”

“I always wondered how you ended up with so many injuries,” Draco said, shaking his head. “And bad injuries, too. I suppose this explains it.”

Harry only nodded in reply. “I found myself in a fix again, and it just seemed natural to come to you. I didn’t really have much of a choice and you were close; it was that or wait until one of my fellow squad members or the Field Aurors came and found me, and the Ipswich girl could have found me by then too.”

“So you wound up on my doorstep.”

“On your windowsill, yeah.” Harry shrugged, almost disregarding it, though his discomforted shift suggested he wasn’t as casual about his presumption as would be otherwise suggested. “It just became sort of habit after that. I couldn’t help myself.”

“What, you enjoyed terrorising me?” Draco glared at him, but couldn’t deny he was satisfied for the fact. If Jack – no, if Harry hadn’t come back… how different his life would be.

Harry laughed in genuine amusement, rubbing his forehead abashedly. “Yeah, I guess. But besides that, I sort of liked seeing you not being your public Draco. It felt like I was seeing a side of you that no one else did. I mean, you didn’t even act like that around Bulstrode when she showed up that first time.”

Draco shifted uncomfortably, deliberately avoiding looking in Harry’s direction. “How a man acts in solitude is of no concern to the greater public.”

“I know,” Harry said with another small smile. “And that’s what made it nice to see. I think it was probably that which made me actually start to like you.”

Quashing down the rising thrill of satisfaction at Harry’s words, Draco lifted an eyebrow. “You know, I always wondered at your abrupt change of attitude when we first met again.”

“At that little coffee shop on Mahogany Street?”

“Mm,” Draco nodded. “You seemed so different in your approach towards me. Almost like you didn’t hate me at all and never had.”

“I never hated you, Draco –“

“Oh, I object to that.”

“No, seriously. I mean, you were an annoying tosser, sure, but hate?” Harry shook his head decisively. “I’ve hated very few people in my life, Draco. I can tell you that, when compared to them, you don’t even sit on the same radar.”

“I object to that, you know. Why was I not as hated as these anonymous individuals? What did I do wrong?”

Harry chuckled and actually reached forwards to swat at Draco like a fly. “What did you do right, you mean?” He smiled fondly at Draco in a way that was far too intimate. Far more so than any he had ever spared for him before. It sent another thrill through Draco. “I think I just told you that. You’re not as horrible a person as you seem to believe yourself." 

“I doubt I’m quite as altruistic as you seem to think either, however.”

“You, altruistic?” Harry shook his head. “I don’t think I’d ever use that word to describe you, Draco.”

“Too right,” Draco agreed. He wasn’t sure if he was satisfied or dejected by Harry’s suggestion. He didn’t want to be seen as altruistic, not in the slightest, but any favouring of his character that Harry felt was to be strived for. “None of that ‘for the greater good’ crap.” 

“Except when it comes to taking in injured birds.”

Draco cringed. “I have often regretted acting as I did.”

“I know you have,” Harry said. His tone was still, oddly enough, fond. 

“I don’t like animals. At all.” 

“Yeah, I know that too.”

“You have on idea how many times I wanted to just _Silencio_ my window, ignore you and let you bleed out on the sill.” Draco recrossed his arms over his chest, ignoring the fact that his shoulders hunched themselves in an almost defensive fashion. His posture could be construed as objectionable. Even sullen. Either would be better than awkward nervousness.

Harry leant further into the table, his hand reaching forward until it almost rest against the side of Draco’s hip. “Yes, but you didn’t. Not once. Whenever I knocked, you always opened it.”

“You’re making this sound a lot more romantic than it actually was,” Draco muttered with a pointed glance. “You were a bird.”

“Even so. I’m talking more about your character than any development of our relationship.” Damn Harry for so causally throwing around the words ‘our relationship’. That got Draco to thinking far too distractedly. “You didn’t have to let me in. You didn’t have to heal me, or let me stay –“

“Millicent threatened me.”

“Regardless. If you truly didn’t want to, Draco, you wouldn’t have let me stay. Just like you didn’t have to read up on the healing arts – veterinarian healing arts, at that – or about merlins in general. And you didn’t have to come home every Friday night and stay up late to let me in. Or leave me some dinner. Or specifically buy Italian because I like it.”

“I hate meatballs,” Draco grumbled. It was all he could think to say. When Harry listed all of it like that, it did almost sound like a lovers infatuation. Draco had thought Jack was just a _bird_. How twisted did that make him, that he would act in such a way? And it certainly made him sound altruistic.

Harry reached forwards until he was just lightly touching Draco’s hip. Immediately, every nerve in Draco’s being seemed to focus on that point of contact. “You know, I think I gathered that. I never really understood why you got them in the first place.”

“Neither did I,” Draco admitted. His body was frozen, taut in his attempt to keep his gaze from drifting to his hip where Harry’s fingers rested. Slowly, he turned his gaze towards Harry’s and was met stare for stare once more. It was almost jarring how different that stare was than the one they’d shared upon first entering his house. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

Slowly, regrettably, Harry retracted his fingers until they dropped from the table into his lap. His chin dropped with them, eyes turning downcast to regard the table top. “I… I don’t know.”

“You could have just said something. It would have been a better way of finding out, I think.” Draco paused, feeling the full weight of what he hadn’t realised was a sense of betrayal well up within him. “I thought we were friends.”

“We were. Are. Am. I don’t know.” Harry shook his head in a jerk and, though his head remained bowed, Draco could make out a frown furrowing his brow. “I… I’m not good with that sort of thing.”

“What sort of thing?”

He waved a wafting hand in an incongruous gesture. “With this. Talking. Admitting secrets and all that." 

“You seem to have done a pretty good job of it so far,” Draco considered aloud. He was surprised to find his voice was almost soothing. Draco had never strived to be soothing in his entire life.

“You’ve no idea how many times I’ve practiced this conversation over and over in my head. It’s basically scripted.”

“Really?” Draco’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “I wouldn’t have picked that. You sound remarkably natural.” Except that a moment later, something niggled in the back of Draco’s head. A memory, a thought, mirroring Harry’s words almost perfectly. How Harry did almost sound ‘scripted’ at times. Draco had never truly actually considered that. 

“I’ve had a lot of practice,” Harry mumbled. He seemed almost to withdraw into himself, shoulders hunching slightly and chin tucking further into his chest. He tone was self-deprecating and for the first time in perhaps ever Draco saw Harry Potter as vulnerable. He seemed… small. Almost diminutive as he withdrew into his seat. The only time Draco could recall him ever seeming even remotely similar he’d thought Harry was dead as the half-giant Hagrid had carried him from the Forbidden Forest, trailing behind the Dark Lord. Draco felt physically nauseous at that memory, so the image Harry presented was not favourable in the slightest.

It took an effort – Draco wasn’t used to such displays of intimacy – but with a mental nudge, a mental _shove_ , he forced himself to reach out and touch his fingers just slightly upon Harry’s shoulder. Harry didn’t lift his head but Draco saw him glance sideways at his proffered touch. He wondered if Harry felt as electrified by such simple point of contact as he did. 

“You’re not all that great in social situations, are you?”

“You think?” Harry asked, his tone almost scolding, but Draco got the distinct impression it was more directed towards himself than towards Draco. “I’ve basically had two solid, true friends for the majority of my life until you came along." 

“Which would make me the third,” Draco blurted out before he could help himself. He didn’t know why he said that, but it actually satisfied him, such simple knowledge. He was Harry’s third real friend. Ever.

The weight of that didn’t fully sink in until several moments of silence had passed. Three friends? Seriously? Draco knew that the Golden Trio of Gryffindor had been fairly exclusive, but no other friends? Not even before attending Hogwarts? Draco didn’t have all that many himself, but that was more a deliberate dismissal of such relationships on his part. Harry sounded nothing if not longing at the prospect of friendship.

That was definitely something Draco was determined to get to the bottom of.

At Harry’s continued silence, and as Draco slowly joined the dots in his mind, he spoke once more. “You never told me how you really felt about me. Harry, how long have you had feelings for me?”

“Define feelings,” Harry muttered. The almost aggressive tone of his voice was very different to his closed countenance.

Swallowing, struggling to voice his own, Draco took a deep breath. _Here goes. Sink or swim, Draco, but you’ve no choice but to dive in._ “I’m talking about love. You love me, don’t you?” A pause. “Harry?”

Harry shoulder was rigid beneath Draco’s fingers. Only the body warmth seeping through his wrinkled Auror robes indicated he was anything but stone. “Love…” He whispered so quietly it was almost inaudible. He sounded as terrified as Draco felt.

At another attempted swallow, Draco continued. His voice was husky. “For me, I’d say it’s been years. I don’t know exactly when it happened, or when I first acknowledged it, but…” He attempted to clear his throat once more but couldn’t bring himself to look at Harry any longer. Even when he knew Harry had finally raised his gaze. “Yes. Probably years.”

Draco could hear Harry’s breathing. He wasn’t sure if it had hitched louder than usual or if Draco was simply hyperaware of it all of a sudden. He sounded fearful, though Draco knew he couldn’t _possibly_ feel as terrified as Draco refused to admit he felt himself. At least Harry hadn’t confessed anything yet. At least he hadn’t bared himself, exposed such potentially incriminating feelings. Hadn’t let his tongue run away with itself without any certainty of –

“For me, I’d say it was the first time you opened your window for me." 

The racing speed of Draco’s thoughts ground to a halt. Now it wasn’t only Harry’s breathing that he could hear. Struggling to swallow the tightening in his throat, to drown the madly fluttering cache of insects whizzing around his stomach, he slowly turned towards Harry once more and found himself captured by his gaze. _Damn,_ how could a single look do that to him?

“Technically… I didn’t open it for you.”

A hesitant smile twitched at Harry’s lips for a moment before spreading with more confidence. “I know. But if I was going to pinpoint a moment, it’s probably then that I realised I love you.”

The weight of Harry’s words seemed to hit them both at the same time. Draco saw it as a widening of Harry’s eyes, heard the slight hitch in his breath and saw the sudden growth of his pupils. He could only imagine what Harry saw in himself. But he knew what he felt. And what he felt demanded an outlet.

Immediately.

Draco didn’t wait. He couldn’t. That single comment, that single expression, was as much permission as he could handle. And he probably should have waited, what with the uncertainty that Harry had conveyed about the nature of a physical relationship. But he couldn’t do that either. A physical response seemed like the only one he could manage. 

Without a second thought, he crossed the remaining distance between them until he stood nearly over the top of Harry, grasped his head in his hands, and brought their lips together. This time, Harry didn’t even pause. There was no moment of frozen shock, of surprise before he melted into Draco. When their lips touched, Harry sunk into him immediately.

The first kiss had been wondrous. Miraculous. Unexpected, unprecedented and utter bliss. Yet it didn’t hold a candle on that he shared with Harry in that moment of union. The world seemed to fade around him, the centre of the universe narrowing to the soft yet demanding pressure of Harry’s lips, the warm stroke of breath as gasps became pants, the blessed moment of abandon when he parted is lips in tandem with Draco’s and allowed their tongues to fall into delicately intertwined coils. His mouth felt afire with sensation, the feel of Harry’s fingers as they rose to the back of his neck invigorating. The Dartmoor Coven could have crashed into his house for an impromptu raid and he wouldn’t have cared. He wouldn’t have stopped.

There was no pause for question. Thankfully, Harry didn’t seem to need to be asked. When Draco took a step backward, his hands still locked around Harry’s head and refusing to part from their deepening kiss, Harry rose from his seat to follow him. Which was utterly perfect, because from the moment Harry stood, Draco realised just how many items of clothing they were still wearing. It was certainly easy to remove those clothes without the inhibiting presence of a chair.

“Do you… I’m going to… I’ll just….” Draco couldn’t finish a sentence, each broken by the locking of lips. Again Harry seemed to understand. Nodding, he turned his hands to the lapels of Draco’s robes and, with surprising urgency, tugged them demandingly. Draco gasped a laugh; for once, he didn’t mind all that much being the receiver of attention, to be the taker rather than the giver. Besides, it only meant he could turn more of his own attention upon Harry.

Which he did. And Merlin was he grateful that he did.

Clothes were shed. Shoes slipped from feet, robes dropped and discarded carelessly. With each removal, each revelation of slightly more skin, Draco found himself spellbound. He felt like a fascinated virgin, witnessing true beauty and wonder for the first time. Never had the curve of a bicep seemed so arousing, the dip of a neckline before Harry’s chest was fully revealed with his discarded undershirt so intoxicating. Pale skin, tanned skin, skin speckled by soft hairs and clenched beneath tightening muscles; Draco’s fingers found them all. He didn’t feel like he had enough fingers, in fact. There were simply too many places to touch.

And then they were free. And standing before Harry, his hands locked one upon the back of his head and the other on his wrist to deny any thoughts he might harbour of escape, he saw him. For the first time. It was both nothing and everything he’d expected it to be. Draco managed to pause in his frantic lip-locking to simply stare, to appreciate that which was before him.

Long, lean limbs, curved gracefully in the elegance of honed musculature. Narrow hips with just the faintest jut of hipbones, tapered waist and broad chest and straight, wide shoulders. There were little things that Draco hadn’t thought he’d find fascinating, things he’d seem dozens of times on other men but held none of the degree his attention that Harry’s did: the arch of his neck was surprisingly long, elegant even. His fingers, while calloused, where long, slender, and nails slightly overgrown. The thin, darkening trail of hairs from his lower abdomen and dipping towards his groin was soft and smooth to the touch. And his eyes. Salazar help him, Draco could always lose himself in Harry’s eyes. Especially when he looked at him like _that_ , all heat and focus and bleary readiness.

He truly wasn’t all that much like Kevyn at all. They were nearly of a height, Draco and Harry, and unlike Kevyn, Harry didn’t possess quite the breadth to his shoulders. He was all lean and smooth, refined and thrumming in the comfort of his own skin. A compact coil of surety.

Just like his merlin form. That thought only made Draco love him even more.

Dragging Harry towards him in another kiss, Draco simultaneously urged him backwards towards his bedroom. Harry let himself be led, directed, prodded almost demandingly. When the backs of his knees hit the end of the bed, he fell without qualms with a slight bounce onto the mattress. Draco was upon him barely a second later and nearly groaned aloud as their bodies pressed together, as heated skin touched heated skin and stimulated every nerve with hypersensitivity. As Harry’s arms slipped around him, one around his neck and the other his waist, he could feel every micrometre of contact and it set him aflame.

Almost unable to pause in his frantic pressing of lips to lips, to skin, to jawline and across cheekbones and every part of Harry’s face he could reach, Draco struggled to speak. It was a little difficult, given that most of his thoughts had pooled in his groin, focused entirely upon the sensitivity of growing hardness and the heat of Harry’s own arousal pressed against his own. “Harry, I want to –" 

“I know,” Harry gasped, apparently struggling as much as Draco. He closed his eyes, head tilting as Draco dropped his lips to lick at his throat. “I – I want you to.”

“Thank Merlin. I don’t… know if I could stop if you… didn’t want –“

“Good thing I do, then.”

Draco barely heard him. He had become thoroughly engrossed in working his way down Harry’s throat, kissing in little pecks, licking and nipping gently yet sharply enough to elicit little moans from Harry. It was music to Draco’s ears. “You’ve no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this,” he murmured into Harry’s chest as he dropped another kiss upon his collarbones.

Harry uttered a sound that was halfway between a gasp and a groan, writhing beneath Draco’s touch. “Then just do it already.”

“Honestly, I could tell you stories,” Draco continued. Propping himself up – Merlin, it was almost impossible to draw himself from the addictive warmth of Harry’s skin even for a moment – he reached towards his nightstand. “ _Pansy_ could tell you stories, actually.”

Still panting slightly, Harry turned a bleary, confused frown towards him. “You… you talk to Pansy about… about me?”

“Not hardly,” Draco continued. He had half a mind on his fingers fumbling through the nightstand draw and the other half on simply holding Harry’s gaze. It was suddenly the most important thing in the world to remain at the centre of his attention. “She just makes assumption.”

Harry snorted, closing his eyes and raising a hand to his forehead. It was almost a blessing in that it freed Draco from his captivity. “Thank God. I worried for a moment that Pansy Parkinson would be privy to your fantasies.”

Uncapping the little bottle he’d retrieved, Draco squeezed a generous portion onto his fingers. Then he had to pause, because for whatever reason the smooth skin over Harry’s shoulder needed to be kissed _right then_. “Trust me, Harry, I don’t have any inclination to tell Pansy my fantasies.”

“That’s… a relief.”

“I’d be more than happy to tell you though,” Draco continued. A kiss to the shoulder became a trail of kisses down his arm, which fell to soft, nipping bites at his wrist and then drew back to Harry’s chest. Harry shifted beneath him his free hand grasped the back of Draco’s head almost hard enough to tear hairs while the other drew down his back. Those trailing fingers did things to Draco.

“Honestly, I could,” he continued once more. His tongue seemed to speak without his inclination, somehow managing to speak around the kisses he planted on Harry’s heated skin. “I could tell you every time I’ve thought about it, every place I’ve imagined –“

“Draco –“

“I could give you a blow-by-blow of _exactly_ what I want to do –“

“ _Draco_ –“

“I could tell you exactly how those thoughts surface every time you’d look at me in a certain way, every time you speak just so, every instant you’d –“

“Draco!”

Harry’s half-groan, half-cry finally broke through Draco’s feverish thoughts. He resurfaced from where he’d made his way down to Harry’s belly, his free arm coiling around one leg in an unwavering hold to keep Harry just so. He glanced upwards, a question already on his lips, but Harry spoke first. 

“I swear to God, Malfoy, if you don’t shut up and fuck me right now, I will murder you.” 

Draco felt a slow smile spread across his face. There were so many things about that statement that delighted, not the least of which that the use of his surname, bringing forth a rush of nostalgia. “You know, you almost sound like Millicent when you say that. I do think she actually has intentions to kill me one day. You should hear some of the things she says…”

At Harry’s frustrated groan, Draco couldn’t hold back a laugh. He did, however, comply with his suggestion. How could he not? When absolute perfection presented itself, offered itself splayed like an inviting banquet and demanded to be eaten, how could he not partake? It would be… it would be rude not to.

Dropping his lips into the smattering of kisses once more, his hands worked for him. The directive manoeuvre of limbs, the unspoken urging to shift, and his gentle probing of slick fingers. The moans his touch elicited, the way Harry arched and pressed himself onto Draco, his arousal hard and firm against Draco’s own as he held himself suspended above him, only served to stimulate Draco further. A second finger and another moan went straight to Draco’s groin. It by-passed his brain entirely. 

Harry had obviously done this before. Obviously. There was almost… openness in his motions, allowing himself to be eased apart, and though his body protested slightly it was not a direct denial, not a withdrawal in any kind. Draco wasn’t entirely sure if he was relieved or disgruntled by the knowledge that Harry had been with someone else – hypocritical, he knew, and juvenile to consider otherwise, especially when considering Ginevra Weasley – but still.

All thoughts of past lovers, both Harry’s and his own, abruptly faded however when Harry, in a movement so swift and fluid Draco hardly saw it, twisted his body until his legs wrapped around Draco’s waist and his arms coiled around his back and neck. He drew Draco towards him and those damned, intoxicating eyes captured Draco, freezing him in his motions. “Draco…”  
  
That one, gasped word undid Draco entirely. He didn’t quite recall what happened next, but it hardly mattered. All he was aware of was taking himself into his hand, slickened and heavy, hitching Harry’s leg towards his shoulder, positioning himself and finally, slowly, easing himself into the welcoming heat of Harry’s body.

There was no experience that could quite compare. None of his previous lovers had ever elicited such a sharp, intense, all-consuming feeling of pleasure. Sliding incrementally into Harry, his nerves set alight, his own moan echoed Harry’s. The final inch into becoming fully seated snapped in a second, with a pant and a trembling of limbs.

It would have been a sin not to pause for that moment, to revel in the sheer perfection of it. Harry trembled beneath him, around him, his fingers sliding downwards to grip Draco’s biceps like a lifeline. Draco, one hand propped on one side of Harry’s head and the other hooked on the back of his knee to keep it held aloft, peered down at him. His breath came in faint gasps, matching Harry’s in pace.

“Harry,” he uttered, and it was almost a gasp. “I’d truly love to take you up on your offer from just now. If you’d be so inclined.”

Harry didn’t speak, didn’t seem able to. He simply nodded his head vigorously, fervently. Draco had a moment to revel in the fact that it was he who so undid him, he who had loosened the respectable and upstanding captain of the Elites to a quivering mess of desire, before all that became inconsequential. And acting on impulse, he withdrew his hips slightly, and snapped them forwards in a slide of mind-numbing pleasure.

‘Intense’ is perhaps an overused word. Or at least it was for Draco, for he couldn’t possibly describe their coupling as anything but. Fucking was a very good word, and if perhaps it wasn’t quite ‘making love’, Draco rationalised that it was only because the sheer need for pleasure seeking between the both of them overrode every other desire.

Draco set up a fast pace that Harry appeared to agree with entirely. Dropping his hand from Harry’s leg to hold himself aloft over him more easily, he pushed into him with quick thrusts. Again, and again, and again. Somewhere in the back of his mind he was aware that he said something. He made some sound, possibly words but more likely simply moans. It hardly mattered. Harry didn’t seem to care, hardly even appeared aware. He seemed as captured by the moment as Draco did himself, falling prey to the instincts his body urged him towards. As Draco released his hold on the back of his knee, he repositioned himself to lock his legs around Draco once more, crossing them across his back. The bucking of his hips into Draco’s, the motions in tandem with his own, sent pulsations of pleasure arcing through Draco’s body.

He could feel it would end too fast. Not that he would ever want it to be anything but enduring; anything else was too short. But with each snap of his hips, each clench of heat around his hardness, the rapid slide of slickness with every withdrawal and following insertion, he lost himself a little more. The rhythmic pace fell to neglect and Draco’s entire world seemed to consist of only a handful of things. Of the pleasure coursing through him, the tight grasp of Harry’s arms and legs locked around him as though he would never let go, of his ragged breaths in his ear. Even the smell of intermingled sweat, thick and salty and pervasive.

He felt only Harry. And nothing had ever been more perfect. 

He became aware of Harry’s shift as his climax built almost unbearably. Hazy eyes caught sight of Harry’s hands dropping down to himself, setting to his arousal and pumping in time with Draco’s haphazard thrusts. Through the blissful heat clouding his mind, Draco reached down and wrapped his own hand around Harry’s, following his motions. The moan he drew forth was delicious. Draco simply had to lean forwards and steal it from his lips.

Release hit him in a crashing wave. A groan seeped through his lips, redoubling as, with a clenching of muscle around his waning hardness, Harry reached his own climax. He urged his hips in gradually slowing thrusts, riding out cascades of pleasure that sent sparks dancing across his eyes and made the act of breathing suddenly inconsequential. Nothing seemed more important than their single point of contact. 

Coming down from such a rushing high, from scaling towards the apex of that which he had gazed upon for so long… Draco had thought he’d be filled with satisfaction, perhaps. That such satisfaction would flood him and satiate him, leaving him entirely fulfilled. Yet as he slumped over Harry, peering through slowly clearing eyes into the lust-blown reflection of Harry’s, he couldn’t move. He couldn’t draw away, couldn’t even withdraw an inch for the distance it would put between then.

In an act entirely uncharacteristic of himself, Draco dropped down from his elbows and pressed himself against Harry. The rapid rise and fall of his chest, the slickness of release that smeared across their abdomens, the feel of warm breath tickling his cheeks; Draco revelled in it all. Head dropping onto Harry’s shoulder, he tilted his chin to peer sidelong at flushed cheeks and hooded eyes. Harry turned towards him in turn, shifting only slightly to more firmly lock his arms and legs around Draco.

Speaking seemed redundant. There was simply nothing that could be said to express just what Draco felt. He knew that. But his tongue worked for him instead. And for once, the reflexive word vomit didn’t act against him. “You’re incredible, Harry Potter.” He paused, as much surprised by the sincerity of the words as that he’d spoken them at all. At the slightly deepening flush of Harry’s cheeks, however, he felt a smile pull across his face. “You know that, right?”

Harry turned his head more fully so that his forehead just slightly touched Draco’s temple. “Shut up, Malfoy.”

“You’re only supposed to say that when I’m criticising you.”

“Or when you’re acting like an idiot.” 

Draco snorted. Shifting slightly to press himself more firmly against Harry, experiencing once more the faint thrill as he felt Harry shift to accommodate him more fully, he dropped a light kiss to the side of Harry’s mouth. “Even with that revision of the rules, you’re being redundant.”

Harry tugged gently at the back of Draco’s head, fingers pulling at his hair. “Incredible’s a pretty big word.”

“It doesn’t make it any less applicable.”

This time it was Harry that shifted, pressing himself impossibly closer to Draco. His legs tightened around Draco’s waist and that did interesting things to his spend arousal. Was it even possible to become stimulated again so suddenly? 

Then Harry, tightening his arms across Draco’s back, turned his head once more and pressed his lips to Draco’s ear. “I love you, Draco.”

Four words. Four short words, awkward and discomforting yet when spoken in such a tone where the ambrosia of sounds. And Draco found that, yes, it was very possible to fall prey to lust once more after such a short time. Especially if he was with Harry.


	12. Closed Doors Opened

Draco strode through the woodlands about an hour’s walk from Smittson’s View. The spring air was not quite warm enough to be without a coat, but he’d shed himself of hat and scarf the moment he’d stepped from the front door. Buds of greenery sprouted from the leaf litter, a shade of yellows and greens filtering early morning light that strained for access to the shadows below.

It was a perfect day for a walk. One of many Draco had taken to of late.

He’d restarted back at work nearly three weeks ago. Lurring had settled on a suspension for disobedience and Krax, figuring that one week of Draco’s absence was better than months of him being locked into menial jobs, had agreed. He’d pulled Draco aside directly afterwards, however, and assured him that he had limit the time to one week at the most. He actually seemed a little vexed at the idea of Draco taking leave, even as a punishment. Who knew Krax had such a soft spot for him?

Draco found that the man was growing on him too, and not only because he appeared to favour Draco over Lurring. There was something immensely satisfying about being recognised for his skills. Draco didn’t think it was too much to suppose that a promotion may be on the horizon for him, even with his latest disciplinary action hanging over his head. Maybe not within the next few months, but perhaps within the year. Draco felt himself nothing if not excited for the fact.

The three weeks following that suspension had taken Draco longer to settle back into the paces of work than he’d anticipated, however. The reason for that could be attributed to one cause in particular.

Harry Potter.

If anything, the suspension had come at an opportune time. With the Dartmoor Coven Case largely coming to a close, the Field Aurors rather than the Elites routing out the few escapees, Harry was afforded his own downtime. It was fairly usual, apparently, according to Harry. Reportedly, it took quite a lot out of a witch or wizard to so actively undertake operations in their Animagus forms, if for no other reason than that it was often unhinging to go from spending so much time as an animal to assuming human form more consistently once more. They were usually given a few days to rest and recuperate before being considered for involvement in any subsequent operations. 

For Draco, that was a marvellous happenstance. Closeted at home with nothing else to do, he subtly urged Harry to spend his ‘R & R’ time in his company. That company, as it happened, tended to consume many hours abed asleep. And many of its waking hours in bed too, for that matter.

It was a period of bliss for Draco. He had never considered a break from work to be a good thing before that. For the past five years, he’d aimed for nothing more than to push himself towards promotion after promotion, to filling his life with nothing but work. That drive had been interrupted by his friends, of course, and then increasingly by Jack, and while Draco had enjoyed both interruptions to the limits of he was capable of, they remained interruptions.

As Draco was forced back into work, it felt entirely the other way around. Work was itself an interruption. It consumed his time with Harry. His only mollification was that Harry was contracted back into work almost simultaneously and cordially appealed to Draco’s discarded career motivation to urge him back onto his feet.

Harry was developing a remarkably good skillset in “How To Get Draco Malfoy To Do Something’. It was almost infuriating, except that, though Harry would always annoy him even as he amused him – for that was simply the nature of their relationship – nothing he could do would be truly objectionable.

There was that which enticed him into work. That, and knowing that, more often than not, Harry accompanied him home. That was simply accepted. More often than Draco visited Harry’s home, anyway, which was fine by him. Draco had always been more comfortable in his own space, and Harry… well, Harry said he’d acquired something of a fondness for Draco’s little house. Draco couldn’t object to his reasoning. He had, technically, been sleeping in his bed for years now.

His relationship with Harry was one big, blossoming rose in the colourful rosebush of Draco’s life. Or at least the increasingly colourful bush. Another was that with his friends. Contrary to his expectations, they had hardly even commented on his absence from their weekly drinking nights. It hadn’t gone unnoticed, Draco knew, but not even Blaise or Pansy had said anything untoward, and Millicent had appeared positively nonchalant at the whole affair when it would have been incredibly easy for her to pick him to shreds.

She didn’t. Draco didn’t know why at first. It was only when, at a passing mention of Harry – or ‘Potter’ as his friends maintained – and he caught a glimpse of Daphne’s famous death stare that he understood. Millicent had opened her mouth, most likely to shoot a loaded barb in Draco’s direction, but a brief glance from Daphne had left her shrinking in her seat and muttering into her glass. Draco had afforded Daphne a curious glance of his own, which she replied to by glaring at him almost as fiercely as she had at Millicent. Almost, but not quite. Draco took that as a point in his favour; apparently, for whatever reason, Daphne had decided to take his side in whatever issue Draco’s friends had surrounding Harry. And if Draco were to be truthful, he wouldn’t have it any other way. Daphne had always been the first to be chosen for group work and the likes in schooling days, and she was chosen for a reason.

There was his mother, too, who seemed to understand his situation as intuitively as she had realised his heartbreak. She hadn’t said anything this time, but Draco had seen it in each of the three visits he’d payed to her residence over the past weeks. The slight smile she didn’t quite hide behind her teacup, the soft glances she cast his way before dropping her gaze the instant he turned towards her. She seemed… happy. For him and because of him. If nothing else – if, impossibly, nothing else – Draco was glad of his relationship with Harry for that. Detached as his mother was, he still cared for her dearly. He believed he always would. She was a presence in his life that even his father had never been, even at the best of times.

Striding through the woods to the sound of twigs cracking beneath his boots, Draco inhaled deeply. He’d never been one much for the outdoors, but he’d learned to appreciate them, especially in the past few weeks. Clean. Fresh. Liberating. That was how they felt.

That was how Harry described them, anyway.

A distant call from overhead drew his attention. Distinctive and familiar like the sound of his own voice in his head. Draco recognised it as he would no other bird’s call. He turned his attention skyward and only just caught a fleeting glimpse of the passing merlin overhead. A brief shadow, flying close to the canopy and darting in that familiar, agile flight of swiftly flapping wings and arcing turns. 

That was Draco’s merlin.

Harry loved to fly. Draco had always known that. Anyone who saw him on a broomstick knew that. But to hear Harry describe assuming his Animagus form was to hear Freedom described. He spoke almost in poetry, the way he wove his words and described the sensation of air currents beneath his wings, rising and falling like waves in the ocean. How he could ride those waves, dipping and bending to climb to greater speeds. How the simple act of plummeting at a pace of kilometres an hour and catching oneself to redirect into horizontal flight once more was the most exhilarating feeling on earth.

But it was more than that. To Harry, flying was breathing. But being a merlin was truly living. He seemed so comfortable in his feathered form that, at times, Draco would wake halfway through the night to find Jack not Harry lying beside him in his bed. Some mornings he would awaken with the dawn, leave before breakfast to hunt instead for his own meal. He described the thrill of the chase, the triumph of latching talons into prey, in such a way that Draco rapidly lost his disgust for the act and almost looked forward to his regular descriptive prose. 

It only hurt a little bit that it meant he was, in a way, abandoning Draco each time he went out. That hurt was patched marginally by the fact that, when he came back, it was to Draco. But it still hurt.

Which was why Draco had begun walking. It was why, when Harry felt the urge to partake not of toast but of something warmer and more enticing for breakfast, Draco came with him. Anything to bring him just that little bit closer to Harry he grasped with both hands.

Infatuated? Yes, Draco was infatuated. Surprisingly, however, the knowledge didn’t bother him nearly as much as it once had.

Another distinctive “ki-ki-ki-ki-ki-kee” caused Draco to raise his head once more. This time, rather than arcing over the top of the canopy, the shadow of the merlin dropped beneath the towering branches of the surrounding oaks. He wove amongst tree trunks like a dancer amongst partners, swooped in a loop-the-loop and curved back down towards Draco.

And Draco raised his hand in greeting for his return.

The feel of talons squeezing his single dragon hide glove was familiar now, the weight of Jack resting upon his forearm comforting. The falcon wavered for a moment, regaining his balance with wings half-flared and plumage ruffled before settling himself. 

He truly was a magnificent creature. Glorious, from the sleek, dark lines of his wings to the piercingly sharp, white-lined eyes. His grip held the same steadiness of Harry’s, mirrored even in avian form. A merlin. The form fit Harry so perfectly. Draco only regretted that he hadn’t known earlier, to gain that little bit more understanding of Harry himself. That, and that it had taken him so long to finally and uneasily allow Jack to perch upon his arm. There was something so reassuring about his solid weight, something so familiar despite the fact that Draco had _never_ intentionally held, nor even touched, a bird in his entire life. Or any animal, in fact

Not that he particularly wanted to. Not unless it was Jack.

Or, well, he usually wanted to. He was usually more than happy, even eager, to offer his arm for the merlin to land upon. That morning was not one of those times.

“That is disgusting,” he said, scrunching his nose in distaste at the sight of what Jack held in his mouth. It looked like… no, Draco didn’t even want to think about it. Some sort of dead animal, entrails still slick and glistening as they hung from either side of Jack’s beak. “Could you not perhaps finish that before you came back?”

In reply, Jack reached one sharp-clawed hand to the morsel and relieved his beak of its grizzly burden. In a gesture so human-like Draco marvelled how, in the face of such gestures, he had ever considered Jack anything but an Animagus, he held the dead animal out towards Draco. The meaning was very clear: _here, your portion_.

Fighting back the nausea that rose in his throat, Draco shook his head. “No, I insist, you finish it. Toast and tea sit far better in my stomach, I’m afraid.” At the insistent shake of swinging entrails towards him once more he waved a hand in the merlin’s direction. “No, Jack! It’s disgusting! I don’t want it. Take it away.”

In a series of clucks that Draco had come to understand were Jack’s equivalent of a chuckle, he bowed his head to his claw and obliged. Or at least he did in a fashion, gobbling it up with relish. The image reminded Draco horrifyingly of his approach to eating meatballs.

Jack was like that sometimes. And it was Jack, Harry had maintained. That had been a confusing conversation. According to Harry, when in Animagus form he felt so overwhelmed by avian urges that his human mind even deemed them acceptable. He said it didn’t bother him, despite Draco’s initial unease towards that revelation. He did, however, suggest that it might be easier if Draco thought of him still as ‘Jack’ despite knowing he was Harry. 

“Besides,” he’d said, an almost sheepish smile on his face. “I kind of like my nickname.”

So the name had stuck. And it seemed even more relevant these days as Draco assumed an almost falconer-like role. He’d read into that, too; not so much on the taming process, but upon the correct method of launching them into the air, about the proper signals used and some of the stories of historical ladies and their merlins. Perhaps it was simply because it was so relevant to him, but he found them fascinating.

Jack gave a clucking chirrup, cocking his head to the side before spinning it almost one hundred and eighty degrees. There was his tell-tale shuffle, the shifting of his wings in a slight flutter that Draco had come to recognise from steady observation. Draco raised his own gaze in the direction that Jack was peering, even knowing he would see nothing. He never did. Jack could, would see and hear prey in the distance, but it often eluded Draco.

Hefting his arm slightly, Draco drew Jack’s attention once more. “You ready?”

In answer, Jack spread his wings, flapping several times in preparation. His talons dug firmly into the glove, steadying himself to launch. Draco paused for just the right moment, the perfect timing of flap and tensing muscles. Then, as though flinging him from his wrist, he threw his arm and launched Jack into the air. 

It was like clockwork. Perfectly timed, perfectly synchronised, Jack took to the sky in a sharp, rapid flapping of wings. His distinctive “ki-ki-kee” call echoed behind him as, with that sharp, dashing flight, he wove in sweeps and arcs between the trees. Within seconds he’d disappeared, leaving Draco with only the afterimage of his flight, marvelling at the wonder that was his merlin.

He quite fancied himself as a falconer. Draco liked the thought of it, of the noble, regal sport of falconry. And that such ‘sport’ meant he could spend time with Jack – with _Harry_ – even removed as he was from the Harry he knew and revelling in his strange freedom, filled him with satisfaction.

No, he might not be a typical falconer, but he knew one thing. He, Draco Malfoy, had tamed Harry Potter.

Or perhaps Harry Potter had tamed him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hi, everyone! I hope you enjoyed the story :D If you did - or if you didn't and you have any suggestions of how I could improve the story/my writing style - or if you have just anything in general to say, please leave a comment. I really, really appreciate each and every one that's left. Thanks!


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